#I was going to explain all the symbolism but it’s very long winded so

[wigglebox]

“From the river to the sea, I am alive” 🇵🇸

#illustration #Gaza #free Palestine #digital art #wiggleart #I was going to explain all the symbolism but it’s very long winded so #this took me like four days lol I kept doing such a deep dive on the embroidery symbolism of Palestinians and it’s so beautiful holy shit

[echo-bleu]

shine still brighter (2/?)

Chapter 1 | On AO3. Deaf!Artanis bullet-point fic.

And I'm back with some linguistics! I barely have an idea where I'm going, but writing this AU is a lot of fun.

Three weeks later, Arafinwë brings little Artanis to Fëanáro’s office. She’s immediately entranced by all the shiny gems and strange little contraptions that are everywhere and she tries to touch them, and Arafinwë is terrified that she’ll break something and Fëanáro will explode.

“Let her,” Fëanáro shrugs. “There’s nothing in there that I can’t afford to replace. It’s mostly old prototypes, anyway.”

Right. His twins are a year younger than Artanis. He’s used to little children running around and being curious.

He brandishes a sheet of paper. “This is just a very rough sketch, and sign language is terribly frustrating because you can’t really write it down, but I’ve thought of ways to go beyond the basic mimic gestures and into the symbolic, which is really what you need for a language to express complex thoughts. We can use spatial variation to express basic grammar, such as tenses. A flexible word order can also take us a long way. Using the entire body opens up an incredible number of fascinating options, think of facial expressions alone! A smile or a frown could be used to modulate any statement into a question or an affirmation, or even something else entirely! We could have a specific mood for reporting speech whose origin is doubtful, for example. And the potential for spatial morphology! I really need to talk to some dancers about this, they might have new ideas. Or theatre comedians, maybe. Oh, and I’ve also devised a signed alphabet based on my Tengwar, for direct translation. It won’t be immediately useful, of course, but you’ll be able to teach her to read and write more easily, and it can be used for names and maybe homonym disambiguation.”

Arafinwë has not understood any of that, except that Fëanáro is very excited.

Fëanáro has never been excited at him before.

It’s a very intense experience.

“…can you teach us?” he asks, a little winded.

Fëanáro once spent a decade learning the languages of various wild animals, one after the other, so he could in turn teach them to Tyelkormo. Of course he can teach them.

“It’s not a complete language yet,” he warns. “I can’t make a language for her. She’ll have to make it her own.”

“…okay.”

“I’m calling it Mátengwië.”

‘Language of the hands’. Fair enough.

He goes to sit cross-legged in front of Artanis.

She puts down the shiny brass model of a windmill she was playing with and looks at him.

She doesn’t instantly scream in his ear, which is a good thing, because Arafinwë has clear memories of Fëanáro excusing himself from meals because of the noise he and his siblings were making.

“Hello,” Fëanáro says, deliberately moving his hands into signs. “I’m your uncle and I’m going to teach you some signs.”

Arafinwë’s heart jumps at “uncle” (Fëanáro has never forgotten the “half” before, when he even bothers to acknowledge them as family).

Most likely he hasn’t invented a sign for “half” yet, but that seems like a strange oversight on his part, given his insistence.

Artanis is fascinated.

“We’ll start with simple words.”

Fëanáro is speaking slowly, because he’s not fluent with the signs yet, but he doesn’t baby-talk. Arafinwë isn’t sure what Artanis actually understands of this – she can recognize some words from their lip-shape, but not consistently, and definitely not whole sentences.

The signs don’t seem to look like anything, not like the ones Findaráto made up. Those were all easily understandable in context.

But within a few hours, Artanis and Arafinwë both have a handful of new signs for everyday items and tasks.

Fëanáro uses clever ways of mimicking and pointing to explain them to Artanis, and she seems to catch on immediately.

Then she spends the rest of the lesson pointing at various things around the office for Fëanáro to name.

Artanis’s signs are a bit sloppy and simplified, because she doesn’t have much dexterity yet, and Arafinwë’s are self-conscious (because doing literally anything in front of Fëanáro makes him self-conscious), but they’ve communicated more in one afternoon than they have in the last two years.

And it’s thanks to Fëanáro.

Ñolofinwë is never going to believe it.

And Fëanáro was bearable the whole time.

Scratch that, he was nice. He teased a little, but it was never mean, and never directed at Artanis. And he laughed at his own mistakes just as much.

Arafinwë actually had a good time.

They go back the next afternoon.

And the next.

And the next.

They get to basic grammar and full sentences.

Artanis is opening up again.

She still gets frustrated a lot, and she’ll slam the door and lock herself in her bedroom whenever that happens, but she retains and uses each sign that Fëanáro shows her.

Arafinwë does his best to keep up.

Findaráto is still not doing too well, but he notices the changes, and after a couple of weeks, he begs for permission to come with them.

Fëanáro seems a little doubtful at adding a teenager to the mix, but Findaráto, if he has sufficient motivation, is an excellent student.

He takes to signing like a fish to water, faster than Arafinwë, and faster even than Artanis, who doesn’t have the benefit of translation.

Within a few more weeks, Fëanáro and Findaráto, and Arafinwë to a lesser degree, are capable of basic conversation in the sign language, allowing Artanis, by imitation, to start moving beyond naming objects and easily demonstrable actions, and into the abstract.

It’s beautiful to witness.

It’s still not a complete language by any means. Fëanáro repeats that warning several times per session, though Arafinwë doesn’t completely understand why it’s important.

It’s important because as they make up more and more sentences, they’re starting to hit at the limits of what Fëanáro has built.

It is not long before Artanis and Findaráto are inventing their own words, at first by combining signs or miming things, but soon enough they’re using their instincts and coming up with brand-new signs. And sentence structures. And grammatical elements.

It’s fascinating to Fëanáro.

(Contrary to popular opinion, he’s not a prescriptivist. The thorn issue is specifically sensible to him because it relates to his mother and he’s entirely irrational about it, but he’s otherwise endlessly happy to watch language evolve and he’s tracked all of his sons’ linguistic progression from when they were born, with charts and all, well into their adulthood, recording all the teenage innovation that other elves tend to scorn.)

Findaráto’s innovations in sign language are mostly based on Quenya, making up signs to translate words from his mother tongue.

Artanis’s innovations are astonishing. Entirely new ways of expressing concepts, of stacking signs on top of each other, of using space and her body to explain abstract ideas.

She takes Fëanáro’s basic concept and elevates it in a way he would never have thought about.

He hasn’t felt the rush of shared creation since he was Mahtan’s apprentice.

He can feel it with Nerdanel when they try something entirely new that isn’t either of their fields (like, say, making children) but in his chosen fields, everyone else is too far below his level to follow him.

And now this tiny child, who is far from being able to keep up with his linguistics knowledge, is making leaps and bounds that he would have never imagined.

He is obsessed.

Arafinwë is getting a little concerned.

He’s also getting frustrated, because he was never good at the word invention games that many of the Noldor are so fond of, and now he’s getting left behind in his children’s learning.

Angaráto and Aikanáro are learning signs bit by bit, enthusiastically, uncaring about having atrocious grammar and form in the way only children can. Artanis frowns and corrects them with a serious face that’s absolutely adorable.

Eärwen is struggling because of her fatigue, but she’s better than Arafinwë at getting to the essentials, at mastering the phrases and signs that she needs first without getting into complex, abstract things. It means that she misses some of Artanis’s rapid development, but at least she can tell her daughter that she loves her

And to stop screaming in their ears to get their attention.

Generally, things are getting better. Findaráto is coming out of his shell, Artanis gets frustrated far less often, and astonishingly, Fëanáro is being nice to Arafinwë even outside of the lessons.

The lessons are really more of an excuse for Fëanáro to document Artanis’s progress, she doesn’t actually need his help any more, though she’s surprisingly open to his suggestions to make a turn of phrase more elegant, or a sign more economical.

Surprisingly, because she’s not taking anyone else’s advice.

On anything.

Being able to communicate hasn’t made her any less stubborn.

She insists on doing everything herself, and now that she has a language of her own, she’s started to resent people who don’t sign.

Findaráto’s translations, even though he tries hard, aren’t good enough for her.

She refuses to play with anyone who can’t sign to her satisfaction.

Understandable reaction—but unfortunately impractical, because she has little patience for anyone who don’t sign as well as she does, which means the only people she’ll voluntarily spend time with are Fëanáro, Findaráto and maybe Arafinwë, on a good day.

Fëanáro has shown an incredible amount of good will so far, but he’s very busy. Mátengwië may have become one of his special projects, it’s still only one of them.

Specifically, aside from his princely and fatherly duties, he’s working on ways to capture light inside gems.

He can’t spend all of his days with a child that isn’t even his.

Findaráto is about to start university and needs to focus on his studies, however much he loves his sister. And socializing exclusively with a child isn’t very good for him, coming out of several years of depression.

“Eärwen and I have been talking about tutors,” Arafinwë tells Fëanáro one day. “Artanis is more than old enough to need one now, but none of them can sign with her. And she doesn’t read or write yet.”

“Reading will be a challenge,” Fëanáro confirms. “She doesn’t know Quenya, she will need to learn an entirely new language and medium at the same time. But she’s very bright, she’ll pick it up.”

“But who can teach her? I tried to start, but didn’t make any progress, she lacks any patience for what she doesn’t understand.”

“That’s not strictly true,” Fëanáro chuckles, remembering hours-long conversations with little Artanis about subjects as varied as which of her brothers is the most intelligent and what should be the right hand-shape for the word “turtle”. “But this particular challenge is understandably frustrating. I will teach her.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. As for tutors, I suggest Tulcasar, once she’s proficient with writing.”

“The loremaster? They’ve always refused to tutor any of us, I know Father asked them.”

Fëanáro laughs. “They tutored me before you were born. They will only accept the brightest students, they dislike children who cannot keep up with them. They lasted two weeks with Findis.”

Arafinwë tries very hard not to feel offended. Fëanáro isn’t even saying it as an insult, he’s so confident in his own superiority that it doesn’t register to him that it might be belittling.

“They’re tutoring Morifinwë and Curufinwë part-time right now,” Fëanáro continues. “My eldest two were never as interested in academic pursuits. Tulcasar will enjoy the challenge of learning Mátengwië, and Artanis is bright enough to keep them on their toes.”

“Alright,” Arafinwë says carefully.

“In the meantime, for the other subjects, you might ask Nelyafinwë or Morifinwë. You know Nelyafinwë adores her. And Morifinwë could use the challenge. I think he’s been feeling a little inadequate since Turkafinwë was accepted into the Hunt and Curufinwë got me to promise him an apprenticeship. He hasn’t found his craft yet.”

“Does he even need a craft?” Arafinwë asks. “I don’t have one. Findaráto is showing no sign of choosing a single field, and neither has Findekáno. Or Father, for that matter.”

“He thinks he does, at least,” Fëanáro says. “Perhaps Nerdanel and I have encouraged that a little too much. He persists in learning to paint, thinking it will please his mother, but I doubt it will ever be more than a hobby. If tutoring Artanis could help him realize that his strengths are more in academia, I would be grateful.”

“Fine, I will ask him. On one condition.”

Fëanáro raises an eyebrow—they both know that Arafinwë isn’t the one doing him a favour, here. But Arafinwë persists nonetheless, because he’s been meaning to bring up the topic.

“Let Maitimo finish his apprenticeship with Ñolofinwë. You know Father is not a good teacher, and he dislikes statecraft, for all that he is the King. Your hang-ups with our brother are hindering your son.”

He fully expects Fëanáro to get angry, only hoping that he’s accumulated sufficient goodwill that it won’t be the end of what friendship they have managed of late.

But Fëanáro laughs.

“You have been away from court for too long, Ara. Nelyafinwë has been shadowing Ñolofinwë for years.”

Arafinwë frowns. “The change hasn’t been acknowledged.”

“Does it need to be?”

Maybe it doesn’t. Let Fëanáro keep his pride and his misplaced grudge intact. He’s been fairly quiet about Ñolofinwë lately, no need to push him into another bout of paranoia.

And so Artanis starts taking reading and writing lessons from Fëanáro in the morning and spends many afternoons with Maitimo or Carnistir. Arafinwë and Findaráto come along the first few times, but it quickly becomes clear that she’s in good hands, and that their presence is hindering her more than helping. Arafinwë starts spending more time at court, since the family are now in Tirion a lot more.

Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë are actually being polite to each other. It’s quite a sight to see.

Things are going quite well, really.

#shine still brighter #galadriel #feanor #finarfin #finrod #silmarillion #silm #the silmarillion #tolkien #tolkien fanfiction #silm fic #echo's fanfiction #disabled tolkien characters

[hprewetts]

an angsty blurb or one shot with Remus dc what about🩷

i'm so sorry it took me a few days omg, i'm the world's slowest writer. that said, tysm for leaving a request<333 i hope i was enough, i used "you" because it comes more naturally to me but if someone wants third person they can say so and i'll try to suffice. i'm still very new to writing this format of fics but i appreciate the trust, here we go :)

This is not a tragedy

summary: you ask remus to get married after james and lily announce their engagement. his answer does not surprise you. 571 words. pairing: remus lupin x reader tags: non committed remus lupin, angst no comfort, open ending, break up (sort of), use of "you" for reader

"Let's do it," you say, "let's get married."

The air is cold against your cheeks once you step onto the balcony. Your breath comes out in white clouds of smoke, drawing trails of mist that disappear against the winds of winter. The words, too, come out slowly from your mouth.

Remus is smoking a cigarette, leaning onto the veranda. James, Sirius, Lily and Peter left a while ago. It's just you two now.

You wait, expectant. The snow rages outside your little flat. It rages inside you, too.

"We want to do it while we can," James had explained at the table, holding onto Lily's hands. The gesture had you breathless for a moment, painfully aware of how much you are missing. "We might not survive the war, the time for living is now."

And you had thought he had been right, at the time. James and Lily wanted to die without regrets and, in a way, their wedding itself was a defiance against the war.

You can not subdue us, it said, you cannot scare us. A pureblood and a muggleborn would be joined in marriage in the middle of the world's greatest attempt to stop exactly that. There is some sort of irony about it that sits quite right.

It's less romantic to you, really. Your love is but a mundane feeling.

James and Lily are larger than life in contrast; their union a symbol of something rebellious, their love alive against all odds.

You feel a little selfish, after giving it some thought, because the only thing you want is Remus to yourself. But perhaps just loving is enough, during these times of terror.

Remus inhales, then slowly lets out a puff of smoke. You just stare, trying to remember this moment. The way his tousled hair sits against his forehead, that scar on his nose you've always been so fond, the way his scars shine against the moonlight. You try to remember, treasure this instant so it won't be lost forever, knowing that you'll lose him.

"I'm sorry," Remus says without meeting your gaze. It's something quiet and small, you can't bring yourself to blame him. "But I can't."

The blow comes quietly, making your chest hurt. You can't say this is groundbreaking, that the world shatters around you because it does not. You held a little hope that he'd say yes, that his love for you would be stronger than whatever it is he's fighting back.

But it does not.

You were always an outsider, a stranger in your own relationship. Remus had always hidden something from you, something big, that you should have known. He disappeared, for days on end, and would never tell you where. When you asked about his scars, he'd lie, his innermost worries, he'd never tell. Remus never let you see him whole, but you thought he would, with time and patience, and that was your mistake.

You were just never that kind of couple.

"I'm sorry," Remus says again.

"I know," you whisper.

"I love you," he repeats.

"I know," you say back.

You try to remember this moment, record it on your memory, but even as he stands before you, the details have already started escaping your memory.

Remus Lupin was never and would never be yours. But you've known that for so long it might as well not hurt at all.

Except it does. It really, really does.

#remus lupin x reader #marauders era #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagine #hp imagine #hp drabble #the marauders #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin x you #remus lupin fic #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin angst #pls be kind i'm new to writing tumblr #my requests are open #:)

[valentineforlemonandcherry]

Joke's On You 19

When Fred Weasley carelessly bumps into you into the hallway, you decide to take him a notch down; not by berating him, but by showing him up at his own game of using your charm and intellect to get what you want. And it’s fine if the end result doesn’t leave everyone quite satisfied - in fact, that’s what you want…

[Fred Weasley x Reader.] [Warning: Story Contains Explicit Smut.] [Warning: Non-Consent.] [Warning: Manipulation.] [Warning: Humiliation.] [Warning: Light Bondage.]

Note: *The smut isn't very strong in this one, but the humiliation aspect is played up a little. Please take care of yourself and do not read if it will upset you in any way.

⍟ Click Here for Joke’s On You Home Page (All Chapter Links) ⍟

You were the very picture of calm as you waltzed in through Fred’s door later that evening. You were holding a letter in one hand, and a stack of papers in your other arm as you came in. As George and Lee were out (for they took every advantage to set up pranks while you were distracted with Fred), you immediately made yourself at home in Fred’s bed – though you had to take a moment to straighten out the sheets and fluff up the pillows – and began rifling through your papers.

Fred studied you closely. There was a small bandage taped to your cheek. Fred wondered if that bandage was there for the reason he guessed it was… But she seems entirely too calm. Hm. There was a long beat of silence between the two of you, until Fred finally tossed an old Chocolate Frog wrapper at you.

“What’re you up to?”

You held up the store catalogue that you were looking through. It was from Madam Malkin’s shop, Robes for All Occasions.

Fred peered at the page you were on – and wrinkled his nose. “Is that your idea of an upgraded ‘mistress’ costume? ‘Cause I have to say, it’s a bit too formal to turn me on, love.”

You snorted. “You wish, Fred Weasley. This is for my internship interview.”

“Internship? Internship where?”

“With the Wizengamot.”

 “Oh. Those prats.”

“Have some respect. Doesn’t your father work for the Ministry?”

“Yeah, but he works in the Muggle Things office.” Leaning back in his chair and roughing up the back of his hair, Fred explained, “They’re all a bit funny, but they aren’t prats.”

You wrinkled your nose. “The what office?”

Fred shrugged. “I forget the actual name. But my point is that the Wizengamot is where all the prats are at. It’s just one giant gathering of prats.”

“Will you stop using that word?”

“Prat?” Fred pondered. “What’s wrong with that word? Prat… prat, prat, prat.”

You stopped perusing the magazine to shoot Fred a hard look.

Willfully oblivious to your glare, Fred went on, “Besides, you have to wear that hideous black cloak over all of your clothing, so what’s the point of dressing so formally?”

In fact, you had often wondered this yourself. But you were hardly going to admit this to Fred. You said stoutly, “Because it’s a symbol of how seriously you take the position.”

Fred chortled. “So, if you were naked under the Wizengamot robes, you’d just be having a laugh, is that it? In that case, I bet Fudge is butt naked under his robes, because he can’t even take Voldemort seriously, can he?”

You decided to ignore Fred, but he carried on, “Merlin, imagine this: Fudge grandly opens the door of the Wizengamot chamber – but oh no, the wind’s lifted his robes and the truth is out – our Minister is as naked as a stripped chicken – Hey!” Fred suddenly cried out as you, having reached your limit of how much of this nonsense you could take, abruptly picked up your magazine and threw it at him. Fred quickly ducked, and your magazine flopped sadly onto the floor behind him.

Meanwhile, you shouted, “I don’twant to imagine such a thing! And I do not need that image in my head as I go into this interview!”

Fred laughed heartily. “Good, so you won’t join the prats, then.”

You groaned and buried your head into your arms.

Fred got up from his chair and came over onto the bed. He tried to slide onto the bed, next to you, but you, while keeping your head down in your arms, refused to move.

Finally, Fred elbowed you and grunted, “Oi, shove aside.”

“Go back to your desk,” you muttered, annoyed. “You’re not wanted here.”

Fred shoved at you harder, pushing his shoulder into yours. “It’s my bed, you crocodile.”

With a sigh, you fidgeted over to make room for Fred. Pulling your wand out of your jacket, you pointed it at the magazine. “Accio.” It flew back to you. You spread it down neatly on the bed and began to flip through it once more.

Fred watched you. He stared at the bandage on your cheek again. He suddenly blurted out, “What if I told you there’s an organization better than the Ministry?”

You replied dryly, “Being a prankster’s assistant is not better than being a member of the Wizengamot.”

“It so is,” Fred replied. “But that’s not what I was talking about.”

“What were you talking about, then?”

Fred chewed on his lower lip. “Well… Say there was an organization that fought against all of this pureblood nonsense and Muggle prejudice directly. An organization that didn’t have to deal with all of stupid denial that Fudge is putting out at the Ministry. Would you join?”

You looked up at Fred. “Is there an organization like that?”

“I dunno,” Fred said quickly. “But I was just saying, if there was, would you join that organization instead of the Ministry?”

“Hm…” You turned over onto your back as you thought through what Fred was saying.

Fred watched you, strangely tense, as if your answer was singularly important to him.

“No,” you decided. “I would still want to join the Ministry.”

Fred blinked. Then, his gaze quickly dropped away from you. 

Stretching your hands out towards the ceiling, you explained, “Because the problem is that the Ministry of Magic is seen as the legitimate wizarding body, so no matter how many rogue groups appear – and they should appear – they still wouldn’t address the issue that Muggle-borns are not adequately represented within our ruling body. How can we vote to restrict the rights of Muggle-borns and call that fair, when there are no Muggle-borns on the Wizengamot? How can we judge the experiences of Muggle-borns and decide whether they are magical or not – although they are, by definition – when there are no Muggle-borns on the panel? It doesn’t make any sense. And I know that having just a few Muggle-borns join the ranks won’t solve the problem at all. But still, it has to start somewhere, doesn’t it?”

While you were speaking, Fred’s gaze had slowly but surely found its way back to you. He looked up at your hands, reaching towards the sky, and then traced your lovely arms back to your bright, intelligent face. He let out a quiet sigh, so quiet that you didn’t hear it, before he said, quite simply, “Yeah, s’pse so.”

You picked up the magazine and began rifling through the last few pages. Coming across the menswear pages, you observed, “It’s a shame you aren’t more refined, Fred. Then maybe I really could call you ‘sir.’”

“You just wait, love,” Fred assured you. “Once I have a bit of money to spend, I’m definitely gonna be worthy of the name ‘sir’. I’ll look so good, I’ll blow your socks off.”

“If you look so good, shouldn’t I be blowing you?” you murmured, very casually.

Fred paused. “Well – Well - ”

You pretended as if you hadn’t said anything at all, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw Fred suddenly twitch, and you barely held back a smirk.

“Worthy of the name ‘sir’? Really?” you continued, letting your skepticism bleed into your voice. “What would you wear? Something like this?” You pointed to an image in the magazine, of a sharp-looking pair of black and silver wizard robes.

Fred scoffed. “Are you kidding me? That’s for pillocks.”

“I think it looks rather dashing.”

“That’s because you’ve got no imagination, love,” Fred said, shaking his head at you. “No, I’d wear something like – Hold on, I’ll show you.” He slid off of the bed and walked over to his desk. He pulled out a catalogue, which he had marked with a chocolate frog card, and then brought it back over to show you. Confidently putting his finger down on his preferred outfit, he announced, “Feast your eyes! I’d wear something like this.”

You looked down to where he was pointing so proudly.

“Fred, this is absolutely horrendous.”

“What!?”

“This is – Crimson dragon skin? Oh, Merlin. Could you be any more unrefined? Why don’t you just Stupefy an Erumpent and wear it around your shoulders? It would be less obvious.”

Fred flared up indignantly. “Excuse me for having a sense of fashion that’s not based entirely around having a stick up my ass!”

“You are so dramatic.” You rolled your eyes. “Listen to me. Crimson? Against your ginger hair? It’ll clash. And dragon skin? That just screams ‘needy’ and ‘flashy.’” You paused. “Wait, on second thought, that’s perfect for you.”

Fred growled, “You take that back.”

“Then you agree that these are ill-fitting on you?”

“No!”

“Oh, so you agree that you’re needy and flashy?”

“No – Wait, what?” Fred said, confused.

You tried to maintain your serious composure, but your giggle slipped through as you teased him, “You can’t have it both ways, Fred. You know what that means, right? You’ll never be a ‘sir.’”

Fred exhaled sharply. He snatched the catalogue back from you. “I was being serious!”

You laughed. Reaching over, you patted his shoulder. “Oh, Fred… I’m sorry, but it’s impossible not to tease you when you bring out suggestions like that and act all serious about it.”

“I’m not acting, I am serious about it,” Fred protested, looking away from you in a rather annoyed manner. “You just wait and see.”

“All right,” you said pleasantly. “I’ll wait and see.”

Fred paused. Still holding the catalogue in one hand, he swiveled his head around to look at you. “You will?”

You nodded earnestly.

At this, Fred slowly melted. He reached out with one hand and stroked your hair as he murmured,  “Well, I dunno why the hell you’d want to be in a group of prats, when you’re a special prat, and you’re better than all of ‘em, but if you really want this… I hope you get to join and work for chicken-butt Fudge.”

You smiled wanly at this heart-felt encouragement. “Thanks, Fred. Thanks very much.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

It looked as though you were all done for the evening, as if you were getting all ready to leave Fred’s dormitory and head down to dinner, when  -

“Ah, that’s right. I nearly forgot.” You whirled around and, lifting your wand, shouted, “Incarcerous!”

Black ropes appeared out of thin air and wrapped themselves all around Fred. Fred, who had been standing beside his desk and putting away the catalogue, yelped as he suddenly found himself all wrapped up. He instinctively stumbled backwards, but he tripped and started to fall over.

You leapt forward and grabbed him, but instead of helping him stay upright, you lowered him to the ground. Then, while Fred was shouting indignities at you, you very slowly stepped over Fred and then sat on him, until your knees were tucked tightly against either side of his hips.

“What’re you playing at?” Fred yelled hotly.

You stared at Fred for a moment.

“Let me go!” Fred protested. “This isn’t your stupid sex dungeon, it’s my room!”

“Same thing,” you said dismissively. Then, you cocked your head, studying Fred for a second longer. “Hm.”

“What, you maniac?” Fred said angrily.

You decided, “Right, I prefer pink.” You tapped your wand against the ropes crossing Fred’s chest and the black ropes instantly turned pink.

You smiled. “Much better.” Then, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a long pink ribbon, with a little silver bell on it.

“The hell is that?” Fred cried out, already fearing the worst.

“My gift for you,” you said innocently. “Don’t you like it?” You swung the ribbon, and the bell let out a little tinkle sound.

“Why in the world would I ever - ?” Fred began.

But you’d already leaned forward to loop the ribbon around his neck.

When Fred cursed at you and then tried to bite you, you said sternly, “Down, puppy,” and gently swatted his cheek.

“Wha - ? Wha - ? Puppy?” Fred sputtered indignantly.

“Yes, and there’s your leash,” you said lovingly, as you tied the ribbon prettily, so that the bell hung at Fred’s neck. Once tied, you patted the bell, and when it rang, you let out a loud sigh of happiness and you sank down further onto Fred’s chest. In fact, you even blushed with pleasure for Fred looked so cute wearing his little leash.

“Mm, you’re really so pretty, Fred,” you whispered, looking down at him with adoring eyes. “Ropes and ribbons… Yes, I want to cover you with ropes and ribbons…” You leaned down and bit at Fred’s neck. “Mmm… You’d be all mine.”

“Wha…?” Fred repeated mindlessly, gaping at you like a fish.

“Hah…” You let out the softest little laugh as you breathed your mouth against his neck. “Little puppy, all dressed up with nowhere to go… But you can perform for me.” You sat back up and said, with a tight smirk on your lips, “Maybe I’ll throw you a few treats if you play nicely.”

At a loss for words, Fred turned bright pink.

Then, crossing your arms across your chest, you looked down at Fred. The playfulness suddenly disappeared from your demeanor as you said, rather seriously, “Surely you know why I’ve done this to you.”

Fred replied irately, “Do I ever?”

You reached up and ripped the bandage off of your face. “Get rid of it.”

“Ah.” All of Fred’s anger melted away at once, for Fred grinned brightly when he saw the heart stamped onto your face. “So you weren’t quick enough to avoid my punch of love, eh?”

Your eyes smoldered with a silent, but building fury. “I said, get rid of it.”

A wicked glint shimmered in Fred’s eyes as he chirped, “Nah, I’d rather not. It suits you.”

What had happened, of course, was that Fred’s little “gift,” which he had given you after your love-making session in the classroom wardrobe, had actually been a prank. Inside the little box, you’d found a tiny telescope. You’d curiously extended it and then put it up to your eye, at which point a tiny punching hand had popped out. You’d been quick enough to start to dodge it, but the hand still got you in the face, right on your cheek, so that your cheek was now stamped with a tiny ink heart. Worse still, no Spell or Potion could get rid of the heart imprint, and you’d had to resort to covering it up with a bandage as you went about your day, attending classes and conducting prefect duties.

“Fred,” you whispered, not letting your voice betray even a hint of your impatience, “I’m about two seconds away from making you bend over for me to spank you until you cry like a baby.”

Fred scoffed.

Your eyes narrowed. “You pretend like it’s a ridiculous thought, but both you and I know that you would do it.”

“Not in a million years,” Fred replied flatly. “And not when you look so ridiculous, you heart monster.”

Your nostrils flared for a second, but you managed to control yourself. “Fine,” you said matter-of-factly. “Then, I’ll leave you here, tied up in your bedroom with your little puppy bell on, and leave your bedroom door open for all to see.”

“You’re such a sadist,” Fred muttered. “If you want me to take the heart off of you, shouldn’t you be trying to get on my good side? Why are you threatening me?”

Your eyes went wide. “I’m threatening you?” You shifted forward and then sank your nails into Fred’s chest so abruptly that he gasped a little. “When?” you whispered. “When have I ever threatened you?”

“Now,” Fred said dryly, despite the fact that he was wincing slightly as he felt you drag your fingernails down his chest. Even though he had his shirt on, he could feel the fabric being dragged by your fingers. “Right now. You want me to embarrass myself in front of the whole world.”

“But you’d enjoy it,” you pointed out, padding your hands against his chest. “I mean, isn’t that what you do with your pranks – display how embarrassingly immature you are to the whole world?”

“You’re mad that I got one up on you,” Fred said knowingly. “I’m pulling off all of my pranks. I got to make the first move in your stupid little board game. I got you to sign off on my detention sheet. And now you fall prey to my punching prank. You can’t stand that I’m winning at your stupid little games. That what’s going on, isn’t it?”

Ignoring him, you murmured lovingly, “Don’t lie, Fred. You’d love to be all laid out like that, for everyone to see just what a cute puppy you can be for me.” As you spoke, you began to move your hips a little, rubbing yourself gently against Fred. At the same time, you began to hum softly. “Mm…”

Fred corrected you, “First of all, I’m not a damn puppy. Second of all - No, I wouldn’t love that. I think you’d love other people to see that.”

“Oh, no,” you said, and your voice suddenly became a tad more serious. “I would never want anyone else to see how vulnerable you get for me. That’s for my eyes only, Freddie.”

Fred paused. “Well then, why - ?”

Leaning over him, you kissed his cheek (and gave his neck another bite, hard enough to make him suddenly cut off) before you murmured, “Enough talk. What’ll it be, Freddie?”

“Huh?” Fred said, confused.

“Choose,” you ordered, while sucking on his neck. Your voice came out slightly muffled, as you said, “And choose wisely.” You’d only just given him your order when you grabbed the collar of his shirt and started to properly grind your hips against him.

“What – What’re you doing?” Fred suddenly stuttered out.

You felt his stomach tense beneath you. You smiled as you hid your face against his neck. “Nothing. Now tell me, what will it be, hm?”

“Well, Merlin, at least give me a chance to t-think straight,” Fred muttered, only to moan a second little as he felt you move on top of him.

You leaned down and sucked on his neck. “Mmm,” you moaned, more loudly now. Then, you confessed breathily, “You know, Fred, I couldn’t stop thinking about you in class. I reckon I even came a little in class, just from replaying our little session in the cupboard moments before I walked into class. You left me a right mess, baby, and I was having a hard time holding back in class. I wanted to touch myself to the thought of you, but I couldn’t, and it was so, so frustrating.”

“Fuck,” Fred breathed out softly. “Baby, get rid of the ropes so I can touch you. I’ll give you what you want right now.”

“No,” you whispered back, though you kept your voice quite soft. “Because that was before you betrayed me and pulled this stupid prank on me.”

Fred let out an impatient huff. “It was just a little prank. Come on.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I told you. It’s because I hate your stupid punching telescope.” As you gave your explanation, you let your hands roam his chest before you began to slowly drag your hands down his body, all the way down to his waist and then lower… lower… “Such a shame,” you whispered. “I really wanted you again.”

Fred moaned again, more loudly this time. “Forget about the telescope,” said, half-ordering you and half-pleading with you.

You shook your head softly at him as you gathered your hands just above his cock. “Can’t, Fred,” you said, sounding completely heartbroken. “I can’t just forget about that.”

“You c-can,” Fred stuttered out bravely. “Besides, it’s cute! And I thought you like hearts! It was a gift from me, your boyfriend.”

Yes, but I don’t want one punched on my face! you thought. And you made me feel stupid. When I opened the box from you, I thought there’d be something else in it. Maybe a piece of jewelry or… or my button back… Something cute or heartfelt. But all I got was a ridiculous punch to the face!

You replied, “Well, but a good boyfriend wouldn’t pretend to give his girlfriend a gift that punched her in the face and left an un-erasable mark.”

“It is erasable,” Fred protested. He was now straining against the ropes, trying very hard to be able to touch you, to have you again…

Ah, there we go, you thought, ignoring Fred’s efforts to touch you. I knew it would be. It’s just that ordinary erasing spells and potions won’t work. He’s created a singular ink with a singular corresponding eraser. I bet that’s why he asked me about creating permanent ink the other day. I can’t believe I helped him make this ridiculous product!

You watched Fred carefully as you murmured lightly, “Oh, is it?”

“Duh,” Fred replied. “It’s not a joke if you can’t get it off at all, moron.”

Just then, you pushed your hips against Fred hard. Fred let out a whimper. His hands twitched, as he meant to grab your hips, but his arms were still tied down against his body.

“Ah…” he breathed out.

 “But I could get this mark off, then?” you whispered gently, trying not to tip your hand too much. You were close, you could feel that you were. “There’s a Potion, isn’t there, Fred?”

At that moment, Fred glimpsed down.

“I see.” You reached behind you and put your hand on his cock, through his jeans. Got you, you thought victoriously, but you remained calm, playing your part ever so slowly to make sure that Fred would be off his guard at the most important part.

Fred groaned, feeling your sweet hands grasping so needily at his cock through his pants. “Yes, baby…”

“Mm, Fred,” you moaned, biting your lower lip. Your hands slipped messily over the front of his pants as you started to palm his cock. “We just can’t seem to get enough of each other today, huh?”

“Fuck,” Fred breathed out. “You really want more?”

You let your blush as you nodded softly, almost sleepily. “Yeah,” you whimpered.

Oh fuck, she’s getting all soft on top of me, Fred thought. He swallowed hard. I love it when she gets all dreamy like this. Godric, I wanna touch her…

“Well,” Fred told you, “I wouldn’t say no to making love to you again. I’d never say no to that.” He pushed against his ropes again, trying to free himself.

Finding himself still tied down, Fred implored, “Baby, if you want me, you should free - ”

You suddenly cut him off. “Yeah,” you moaned. “Want – Want you…! Mmm!” You rolled your hips around once – in a perfect, mesmerizing circle, as you sat on top of Fred. You let your panties just catch against his belt buckle as you moved your hips.

Fred jolted slightly and his mouth fell open. “Uhn,” he moaned back, shaking his head out of want for you. “Gods, you look so good right now. I bet you’re wet, bet you’re all fucking wet for me.”

You nodded, confirming that you were.

Fred breathed out harshly. “Let me see your pussy.”

You palmed his cock harder, but you also shook your head.

“Uh!” Fred let out a short, tight whimper, before he blurted out, “D-Don’t shake your head at me. Just – Just lemme see your pussy, baby. Please…”

“No, it’s your turn to show me,” you whispered alluringly, pushing your hand greedily against his cock now. “Fred, sweetheart, get hard for me again. Want your cock in me. Want your cock all inside of my tight little pussy. You can get hard for me again, can’t you?”

Fred moaned, and then his moan curved into a hard, needy whine. That was when you let your hand just slip off of Fred and onto his pocket, and – there it is! You took your hand off of his cock and plunged it into his pocket. You quickly pulled out a few sweets, all of which you pocketed.

“Where is it?” you growled, entirely breaking out of your sweet, dreamy voice. “Where?”

“Oi!” Fred shouted.

You chucked away a handkerchief, a Chocolate Frog card, and a tiny coin featured some Quidditch Beater on it. Then – “Aha!” Finally, you pulled out a small tin circle. It was labelled, “Anti-Bruise Ointment.”

“Got it,” you sang, holding it up so that it glimmered in the lamplight.  

“You thief!” Fred cried out. “Give that back!”

You smirked. “Thought you’d have this on you.” Then, leaning forward, you shoved your breasts against Fred’s face as you reached over and dragged Fred’s chair over. You brought the chair over until it was just beside Fred’s head. Reaching down, you quickly stretched out a bit of the rope around Fred’s shoulders and tied it around one of the chair legs, effectively pinning Fred to the ground.

Fred protested, “What d’you think you’re doing? You think you’re going to get away with this? Oi! Stop ignoring me!”

You reached into your pocket and pulled out one of the sweets – a Chocolate Frog. You ripped open the package and then pushed the Frog gently but firmly into Fred’s mouth.

“Mmpfh!” Fred let out a muffled cry.

“You like them, don’t you?” you said innocently.

Fred let out some garbled words, one of which sounded like a muffled version of “demon.”

“Oh, it’s a bit too much chocolate for your cute mouth, isn’t it?” you murmured. “I forgot about your little puppy mouth, Fred. My bad.” You leaned over, and putting both of your hands down solidly on Fred’s chest, you gave Fred a kiss before you gently bit off half of the frog into your own mouth.

Then, you reached down and, with your forefinger, gently pushed the rest of the Frog into Fred’s mouth. You instructed, “Chew.”

Fred tried to talk back, but he couldn’t with the chocolate in his mouth. It was beginning to melt in his mouth, and he figured that the fastest way he could get to insulting you was to just eat the damn Frog. He finally started to chew the chocolate.

You smiled. “Very good.” Meanwhile, you started chewing on your half of the Chocolate Frog. 

“Mm,” you let out a sigh of content as you enjoyed the Chocolate Frog. You were still sitting on top of Fred, and, as you took your time eating the chocolate, you reached down and gently tucked away your skirt, strip by strip, into the waistband. You stared down at Fred all the while, saying with your eyes, Remember this? Remember how I didn’t let you have me, didn’t let you even touch me? And now you know that I still have that power. Silly Freddie.

Then, right after you swallowed the chocolate, you reached down and pushed your fingers against your panties, right over your pussy. “Mm, so sweet,” you whispered, while staring down at Fred through half-lidded eyes. The innuendo was clear enough, and Fred whimpered.

“Gods, I’m so wet,” you breathed out. “I want a thick, hard cock to sit on. I need to be filled.”

Fred blinked feverishly. His cock was throbbing so hard right now, and he couldn’t believe that you were doing this to him.

“I keep thinking about how well you fill me up, Fred,” you whispered. “To tell you the truth, I dream all the time about you cumming in me. And I wake up all wet, and I’m moaning your name before I’m even properly awake. Did you know that, Fred?”

Fred’s mouth fell open slightly, and the bell around his neck let out a light tinkling sound.

You giggled. Reaching down, you put your hand on his face, slotting your palm under his chin and squeezing his cheeks and jaw slightly, you whispered, “If you’re done chewing, now swallow.”

Fred stared up at you with wide eyes. He couldn’t quite believe the situation you had him in, but he also couldn’t quite believe what you were telling him – about how you might dream about him, about how his name was the first thing that spilled from your lips every morning.

Your eyes glittered, and you squeezed Fred’s sides with your thighs, as you repeated softly, “Swallow.”

Fred swallowed.

“Good,” you cooed softly. “You’re so good, Fred.” You leaned down and kissed him. As you pulled away, you noted, with a charming and pleased smile, “Mm, I can see why you like Chocolate Frogs so much.”

Fred was breathing quick hard. He seemed to have entirely forgotten about the telescope as he whispered, in quite hurried tones, “You really dream – about me?”

You laughed lightly. “Oh, poor puppy… Don’t believe everything you hear.”

Fred blinked – and then he scowled. “You lied?”

Patting his chest consolingly, you whispered, “Well, I do dream about you. But mostly I’m spanking you and you’re all pink – kind-of like right now – and I’m having loads of fun teasing you. But see, I don’t need to dream about that anymore, because I’m nearly living it, aren’t I? I mean, take right now, for instance. I could go one step further and make you cry right now, Fred. It’d be so easy. I’d make myself cum right in front of you – and then not let you taste me. How’s that?”

Fred groaned, both at his frustration that you’d tricked him once again and at his frustration that you were putting that irresistible image of yourself into his head.

You let out a false sigh. “Looks like it’s best for your stupid little heart if I leave you alone. Yes, I’ll let you live. This time.” With that, you got up from the floor.

As your steady warmth suddenly disappeared, Fred blinked awake. He became rather abruptly and rudely aware of his unfavorable situation. “Wait!” he blurted out. “You’re not really gonna leave me like this?”

You fluffed your skirt back out neatly and then went to collect your magazine and papers.

Hearing the shuffling of papers, Fred realized that you really might leave him all tied up like this. “Oi, you come back here! This is – This is kidnapping!”

You replied in a bored voice, “Is it? You’re in your own room, though.”

“I’m not going to let you get away with this!”

You walked back over to Fred and then yawned in front of him, politely putting your hand before your mouth.

“When you wake up a bald toad tomorrow, you just remember what you did today – Ah!” Fred suddenly cut off, as you had put your foot on Fred’s cock and began to rub him through his pants again.

“A-Ah!” Fred bleated out pitifully.

You pretended to be surprised. “Oh, were you still thrashing about down there? Oops, I didn’t mean to step on you.” As you emphasized the word ‘step,’ you pushed you foot down against his cock even harder.

“Hah… Ah!” Fred panted, and he blinked hard up at you.

Finally looking down at Fred, you smiled at him. “Lost for words, I see. You know, I think you like being tied up. I’ve never felt you quite this hard.” You pushed your foot against his cock again.

Fred gasped. “D-Don’t! I’m s-sensitive!”

You grinned. “Oh, I know.” You took your foot away. “Well, good luck getting out of your ropes in time. But not to worry, you’ve got a – uh – nice tent here to camp under.” You laughed sweetly. “Bye, bye, Fred.” 

Leaving Fred’s room, you kicked the door wide open, and you triumphantly skipped down the staircase of the boys’ dormitory.

When you got to the common room, you stopped in the middle of the room. You counted to ten. That should be enough time for Fred – but only just. You cupped your hands around your mouth, and announced brightly, “Hey! Rumor has it there’s a member of the Weird Sisters in the boys’ dormitory right now! Special guest of Dumbledore!”

A murmur ran through the crowd, and many of the female students jumped to their feet, for the Weird Sisters were one of the most famous wizarding bands in the world, and despite their name, all eight members were male.

“Apparently, he’s going around topless and open to giving autogr – Whoa!” You were properly spun around by the sheer force of the stampede of students racing up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory.

Laughing merrily, you left the common room, sure that Fred would get himself out, but hoping that he’d hear the stampede of people charging up the stairs just before he succeeded. 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

That evening, Fred came to your room to let his grievances be known.

“I would have given the ointment to you eventually, you impatient ass!”

“That rumor about the Weird Sisters? What are you, crazy? Someone could’ve really seen me, you maniac!”

“Don’t you know how to have a civil conversation? Huh? Or does your puny, primitive brain only ever work in battle mode because you’re a stupid, musty, bitter, old crocodile!?”

“I’m not a puppy! And stop – stop messing with my head by making me all crazy for you and luring me into your stupid traps!”

“Just to be clear, I didn’t enjoy the ropes! Why would I enjoy being tied up by a loon with pink ropes? I was only hard because – because you looked so damn pretty sitting on top of me like that – Aargh, that’s not the point!”

“You don’t get to mark up my chest for another week, you crazy hellcat! There, that’s your punishment!”

And he ended with his extremely eloquent insult of, “You’re a – You’re a downright hag!”

You paused. “That’s a new one.”

Fred retorted furiously, “I can come up with plenty others right now!”

You smiled at this. “I’m sure you could. Oh, and by the way, Fred, it’s my move.”

Fred paused. “What?”

“I helped McGonagall catch you, remember? And that - ” You pulled out the tic-tac-toe board and decidedly drew an ‘O’ on it. – “Makes it my move.”

Fred stared at you angrily for a second. Then, he flopped over on your bed in defeat. “You’re such a… a witch,” he mumbled in a muffled voice, burying his face against your pillows. “Always tricking me, always getting your stupid way…”

You reminded him, “It’s like I said, Fred, you might win the battle, but I will win the war.”

Fred turned his face just enough to look at you with one eye. “You, my mistress?”

Knowing what he wanted to hear, you softened. Smiling, you slid into bed beside him and hugged him as you confirmed, “No, Fred. Me, your girlfriend.”

Fred was still for a minute. But then, he wrapped your arms around you and brought you in to kiss the top of your head.

You smiled and leaned into him. “And Fred?”

“What?”

“All that stuff I said about dreaming about you…”

“Your stupid lies,” Fred sighed knowingly. “Can’t believe I fell for them.”

“No, no,” you said honestly. “They weren’t lies. I did say those things in the moment to confuse you, but they’re all true.”

“Stop it,” Fred groaned, even as his arm tightened around you. “You have the ointment, you’ve made me a mess – haven’t you created enough chaos for one day?”

“But it’s true,” you insisted.

“Shush, you,” Fred insisted right back.

“Well, fine,” you said, shrugging. “But I meant what I said.”

“Okay, well, which dreams are true?” Fred questioned. “The ones where you spank me? Or the ones where I’m cumming in you?”

“All. And then there’s a third kind-of dream. It’s my favorite dream, to be honest. It makes me feel all warm for the entire day when I have it.”

“And what are those dreams about?” Fred asked you skeptically, waiting for the punchline. “Better not be about feeding me to a crocodile.”

You smiled, amused. “That’s a good one, Fred. But no…” You gazed up at him steadily as you confessed, “You’re setting off a bunch of fireworks, and they’re all glittery pink hearts and they’re so brilliant and bright, exploding all over the sky. There’s a crowd of people clapping. I’m not among them, but I’m watching you, too. I’m so happy. I’m happier than I ever thought I could be. And so are you.”

Fred stared back at you, suddenly completely disarmed. What… What’s that supposed to mean? What is she saying to me?

You laughed softly at his bewildered face. But it wasn’t a condescending laugh at all – it was a laugh that plainly showed how much you loved Fred. You reached up and gently pushed Fred’s hair away from his face. Then, you lay down against Fred’s chest and melted into him, even more in love with him than you’d ever been.

Knowing that Fred was feeling secure again, you teased him gently, “And sure, you’ve got a little ribbon on, and a cute little bell going ring, ring ring, but what’s a little bell to the ego when you’re the grandmaster of pyrotechnics?” Your voice fell into a soft, lulling tone as you went on.

Fred wondered, “What in the world are you babbling about now?”

You fell silent, with a soft smile on your lips. A life together, you thought. That’s what I dream about most often, Fred.

#harry potter imagine #harry potter smut #fanfic #fanfiction #fred weasley #fred weasley smut #fred weasley x reader #joke's on you

[churbington]

fugo mista parallels thing idk

edit 10/24: okay hi i thought id pop in and share that a HUGE addition to this post has been made here and I think people should go give it a read too bc my thoughts are a lot more organized there thank chew ^_^

okay im going crazy i have to post this somewhere but I think the parallels between the fact that fugo and mista are the last surviving original bucci gang members is so deeply fascinating to me because they are like Direct Opposites in like. virtually everything I think. I'm gonna ramble but I'll try and include a tl;dr before the break

tldr; fugo and mista are opposites in a long of aspects including personality, choices, and general appearance and I find it deeply fascinating that the only two original gang members to survive are such polar opposites of each other and its a very unique and interesting dynamic. Fugo's like the first to join, Mista joins last but then fugo is the first to leave and rejoin again after everything and that can be seen as wavering loyalty (depending on who you assign that loyalty to) while mista's been there since the start and the possibly imagery and symbolism with religion (though that's more fanon territory) and with regards to PHF- like its also so. interesting! They've been strangers from the start so watching your friends die and then a stranger be the only one to live is soul crushing... idk its so neat and I think it should be a dynamic that is explored more

okay so the way i see it is that fugo is extremely logical, rational, and very guarded about who he is and refutes his wants over saying what people expect out of him. He's shorter compared to mista (which. btw why the hell is fugo 5'10" I thought he was a chill 5'6" what the fuck), blonde, green/red color palette, (generally accepted that) he was the first to join the bucci gang and the last to leave it and THEN rejoin it if we count PHF, has a very realistic out view of life, etc. etc I could go on.

Mista, on the other hand, is much more laidback and down to earth with a carefree attitude with a sense of optimism and sense of things are not as complex as they ought to be (like a very simplistic way of seeing things I'm bad at explaining this but its a generally agreed trait he has). He's taller, presumed to have darker hair, blue/red color palette (that directly contrasts fugo's), (also generally accepted that) he was the last to join bucci gang and never left it as well as being the only one to survive (ignoring fugo for this), etc.

There's more you can definitely compare between the two like religious imagery (though that's more in fugo anime's case as it's not really there for mista in canon its just more of a general hc the fandom has made around him) but I think it's sooooo interesting how fugo and mista ended up being the ones to survive like. Thinking about it realistically fugo and mista are essentially strangers to each other through the entire thing. Granted yes, they were all sort of strangers to each other even if they were close (like the first thing I wanna think of is that Abbacchio and Fugo trusted each other but were still strangers as said in PHF) but I think it's really apparent in fugo and mista's case. Fugo has essentially been with Bucciarati (and by definition all the other gang members) since the start if we are to assume that fugo joined first. Mista, on the other hand, joined last (as a generally accepted order) so they barely got to know each other before the events of golden wind started.

So imagine being Mista, a guy who just joined a gang and barely just got to know everyone in it, and the one assholey guy who's sort of a dick all the time, ends up being the only one to survive because he was a coward (aka scared for his life and possibly of defying such a high authority due to previous trauma) and just. Augh. augh. that would be so fucked up and then it happens and it IS fucked up.

And also like imagine being fugo, scared out of his god damn mind because everyone he's been able to even remotely trust and care about over the course of him joining 2ish years ago suddenly defecting and risking their lives for some girl, and the only one to survive in the end is the newbie and the 2nd newbie who threatened you with a gun later.

Like god my thoughts are seriously all over the place so it's sorta hard for me to make this coherent but I think it's super interesting that fugo and mista survived while being direct opposites of each other and having to live with that fact and possibly even make a new friendship (or at least professional relationship) out of that like. god! god. what a nightmare! It's like an inverted mirror of each other and watching as the one thing you hated get to live on while the people you cared about are rotting dead in the ground six feet under because they simply wanted to be somewhat good people in the end, even after what they've done is probably significantly worst. Even as horrible as they are and the deeds though do, they have some small kind acts (cough cough bucciarati taking in WAYYY too many teenagers into the mafia cough cough)

Once again i just think its such an interesting dynamic and introspect into their relationship bc. once again I see them as essentially direct oppositions of each other and so knowing that any kind of mediator between the died forces them to reconcile over the fact they are the last surviving members, even if their outlook on the gang are polar opposites. They would definitely fight and bicker over everything like knowing bucciarati and what he wanted, the reason for staying/leaving, narancia. just narancia, like there's SO much there. i would love to see it explored more especially whenever you throw like giorno and trish into the mix bc it just makes it even Weirder for these two and its augughufghu maybe someday ill make a more proper post over this but hopefully you guys like. get the general gist of this because I am losing my mind constantly

#sorry im normal i promise i swear #golden wind spoilers #gw spoilers #vento aureo spoilers #va spoilers #right off the bat #jojo #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #golden wind #gw #va #vento aureo #phf #purple haze feedback #its mentioned okay #pannacotta fugo #guido mista #i need people to see this i need thoughts and opinions I am so interested in this topic #i definitely need to look into their characters more (especially mista) so I can like redo this someday and make it seem coherent #but for now this will do i am just auHFUHAUSHR!@? #i love thinking about their dynamic bc of this

[minty-mumbles]

Honor in the Braids

Summary: Everyone keeps their hair long in Wild’s Hyrule. Everyone braids their hair in Wild’s Hyrule. Everyone except Wild.

Author Notes: This fic was heavily inspired by three other fics. Check out the end notes on AO3 for links. @bunnyambushed you asked if I could tag you in this when I finally posted this fic, so here you go! :)

CW: Emotional Self Harm/Implied Self Harm

(Read on AO3)

~~~

Link, now called Wild, ran his eyes appraisingly over his new companions’ hair, and promptly shoved all his assumptions into a tiny box in his mind labeled “cultural differences.” 

He could tell that tiny box is going to get very full, very quickly.

But really. What a mess their hair is. The youngest’s was still crusted with sea salt, and the one with the pink streak in his hair was hiding a rat's nest under that hat of his. And wasn’t that pink streak interesting? Wild itched to ask how he had managed to dye his hair like you would dye clothing, but knew it wasn’t his place. He wondered if it symbolized anything.

At least the captain kept his hair sleek and well managed, but something told Wild that doing so was considered unusual.

Because surely it wasn’t possible for every single one of these heroes to be as dishonorable or disgraced as he was? Surely they had not all failed? 

It made more sense to assume that hair simply wasn’t as important in their culture, and leave it at that. 

~~~

“Your hair’s getting a bit long, even for me.” Four’s words were said in jest, nothing more than a light joking tone. Wild knew that. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. He could only hear the sting of the words, the hidden meaning of “You don’t deserve to wear your hair long. Look at what’s become of Hyrule, look at what happened to the people who were under your care. Do you think you deserve it?” 

Wild knew there was no hidden meaning. Four was just teasing him. The smithy’s hair barely brushed his shoulders, and even that seemed to be considered long for men in the other heroes' eras. Of course, they would tease him for the oddity.

He did his best not to react, deliberately not looking up from his slate. He wasn’t actually reading anything or taking stock of his inventory, but if he pretended to not be interested in the conversation, maybe they would leave him alone. “Everyone keeps their hair long in my Hyrule. It’s normal.”

Wild could see Wind tilting his head like a confused puppy out of the corner of his eye. “Eh? Everybody? But what about your Zelda? You showed us a picture of her, and hers is short!” 

Wild nodded. “Yes, Zelda keeps her hair very short. For personal reasons.” That managed to shut the conversation down quickly. 

The group was fairly comfortable with each other at this point. They had shared many secrets with each other. (Wild especially didn’t like keeping information about his journey a secret. His skin already told a good portion of it without him even having to open his mouth.) However, that didn’t mean that the group didn’t value privacy. No one ever pushed for a story that someone didn’t want to tell.

~~~

“You know, I’m surprised that you can keep your hair so neat.” 

Wild took a deep breath in, before turning to face the captain. 

Cultural differences. He breathed out deeply. Cultural differences. He means no offense. 

“What makes you say that?” If the captain saw through his thin attempts to keep his cool, he gave no indication of it.

“Your hero title is the Hero of the Wilds, and it shows. You really are quite the wild young man. I don’t think you bathe even once a week,” Here, he was met with an unamused stare from Wild. They called him Wild, but at least he was civilized enough not to comment on other people’s bathing habits. “Yet, you keep your hair so clean and you brush it every day, multiple times. Why?”

Sometimes, Wild cursed the Goddess for instilling curiosity into all her heroes, because he did not want to explain.

These heroes knew about his failures, and seemed not to judge him for them. But he did not want to explain how important hair was to him. He did not want to explain the stigma behind unbraided hair. He did not want to explain what Zelda was doing to herself by cropping her hair short. He did not want to explain how he just… didn’t want to braid his hair. Years of muscle memory from before the Calamity urged him to do so. But he just didn’t want to.

His hair was sacred, and he would honor himself, and his ancestors, and his goddess enough to keep it clean. But he didn’t want to keep it braided.

Would they understand?

Could they?

He stared at Warriors long enough that the Captain started to look uncomfortable as Wild tried to figure out what to say. He could just tell him the truth, let the words spill from his lips. But he didn’t want to do that either. Warriors wouldn’t understand. None of them would understand.

~~~

The heat of the fire made the already sweltering day even less tolerable. Sweat pricked on the back of his neck, and he wished he had pulled his hair back into a ponytail before he had started working. He was in the middle of peeling carrots, and his hands were stained orange, and were grimy from the leftover dirt on the vegetables. He wouldn’t dare touch his hair with the state his hands were in right now. 

So he would just have to deal with it.

He hunched his shoulders, trying to keep his hair from spilling over his shoulders and into his work, but with every motion he made, more strands escaped. He growled slightly.

His annoyance did not go unnoticed. 

When Wind approached him from behind, Wild wasn’t bothered. He trusted these men, and he knew Wind wasn’t going to do anything. If anything, Wind was probably going to throw himself across Wild’s back, sling his arms around his neck, dramatically ask if dinner was done yet- despite it very clearly not being done- and generally make a nuisance of himself. 

The first touch that came on the top of Wild’s head, with Wind’s fingers carding through his hair, made Wild tense. Wind continued, as if Wild was not suddenly strung tighter than a taut bow string. 

Wild forced his words out, suddenly hypervigilant of the presence at this back. “What are you doing, Wind?” The boy wouldn't go through this ruse just to prank him, right? Wild knew that. Of course Wind wouldn't do that. 

The boy liked pranks as much as the next person, but everyone in the group knew how touchy Wild was about his hair, even if they didn’t know why. Wind wouldn’t do anything to it, no matter how much the group teased him about cutting his long hair. 

Knowing that didn't let Wild to relax, though. He didn’t think anyone else had ever touched his hair. No one had dared. Not even Zelda. Should he be allowing this? It seemed too private. But, then, it was just Wind. Wind, who was all but a little brother to him.

Wind’s response was light and relaxed, no doubt deliberately so. Wild’s tense back would give away his unease to anyone looking at him. “I’m gonna braid your hair! I do it for Arryl all the time, so you don’t have to worry about me messing it up or getting it tangled!”

Wild’s breath barely left his body, and on autopilot, he heard himself responding. “Oh. I had never thought of braiding it…” Wind hummed in acknowledgement, and continued to chatter away about his sister, but Wild wasn’t listening.

He had, in fact, thought of braiding his hair. He had spent hours considering it. His fingers twitched every morning, desperate to perform the routine that he had become so familiar with before the Calamity. His fingers remembered the motions of making a knight’s braid intimately, even if his brain didn't know it. He did not doubt that if he let himself, he would be able to pull his hair back into a respectable form.

He had never let himself give in to the urge, though. 

He brushed his hair every morning and night, and allowed himself a simple ponytail for practical reasons. But that was all he allowed himself.  

His lack of embellishments marked his shame. He was nothing, no one. He had no part to speak of, no family to claim him. He had won no great battles, at least not in his eyes. 

Even the youngest child had something - a braid that symbolized that they were a child, loved and protected, or their family’s plait.  

No Wild, though. He had no family left, and certainly no family plait.

He really should have shorn himself for the shame he had brought on his family. He should have given himself the ultimate shame for the pain and suffering and destruction that he had allowed to befall the kingdom. Zelda herself had cut her hair short enough that it barely brushed her shoulders. 

No one had seen her slip a small knife into her pocket the first time she was allowed to go for a walk alone after the Calamity was defeated. Paya had shrieked in horror when Zelda had returned, her hair as short as a child’s. Wild had come running at the yell, hand already gripping the hilt of his sword. He had expected monsters to have somehow found their way into Impa’s house. What he found was almost worse than what he expected. 

Zelda had confided in him, much later. They had been sitting on the bank of a quick-moving stream, watching the remnants of Zelda’s once again freshly cut hair drift away. She cut it every few months, to keep the hair from reaching her shoulders.

She knew Impa disapproved, she said. She knew that Paya sometimes couldn’t look at her directly, hiding her horrified expression whenever Zelda returned from cutting her hair. She knew no one else understood, save Wild. She had given him a wobbly smile when she said that.  

Her position as the last royal in Hyrule demanded that she keep it long enough to braid her hair in the crown style, she said. Otherwise she would have no hair. But she allowed herself no jewelry, not ribbons, or flowers. She allowed herself no other braids speaking of her triumphs or achievements. 

The defeat of the Calamity came too late to save anyone. It was a pyrrhic victory at best. It deserved no celebration. 

Wild felt the same. So he allowed himself no braids. He kept his hair long only out of respect for his predecessors. So as to not besmirch their legacy with a hero who had to shave his head, to spare the legacy of the hero that ultimate shame.

Now he comes to find out none of them had hair much longer than Zelda’s.

How ironic.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by his hand mechanically reaching for the next carrot, only to find the pile gone. Wind seemed to have realized he wasn’t listening, and had fallen silent, concentrating on his task.

Wild remained crouched, letting Wind finish his work before he stood to tend to the pots boiling over the fire. His knife dangled loosely in his grip as he let the oh-so-unfamiliar-familiar movements of someone tugging on his hair lull him. The motions were so familiar, and something welled up in his mind. It was a familiar mental pressure that signaled a memory trying to break through. He hesitated for a moment, uncertain on whether he should shrug it off or let himself fall into it and discover a part of his past.

After a moment more, he gave in.

“Remember, sweetheart, your hair is your pride. Wear it long, and keep it clean. Keep your braids straight and even, and we’ll always be with you.” The voice was like honey, so close to his ears as calloused hands carded through his hair. Everything was warm. The hands, the voice, the fire burning low in front of him, and Link himself. 

“Yes, Mama.”

The memory was short, and when he came back to the present, no one had even realized he had left at all. His hand shot up involuntarily to pat the top of his head. Wind made a disgruntled noise, but let him be. Wild’s fingers brushed experimentally against neat sections of hair. 

Some weak, shivering part of Wild, hidden deep within himself, made him want to curl up and cry. 

“Alright,” Wind declared after only a few more minutes. Wild wonders for a moment where Wind got the hair tie from, before remembering what the sailor had said about his sister. “It’s all done! Oh, wait-” Wild watched as the sailor scrambled over to Legend’s pack, and stole his mirror shield, lugging it back to Wild. Legend called out in protest, but his voice held no real anger and the veteran quickly turned back to his conversation with Time, so Wind paid him no mind. “Here! Look!” 

Wild took the shield as it was thrust into his arms, and held it up automatically. 

His hair was woven into a four-strand type of braid that was traditional for young preteen children. It was neatly done, for all the meaning of the braid itself didn’t serve him. None of his sideburns or front sections of his hair were let loose. All the strands of his hair were pulled back neatly. Nothing was left out of the braid for him to braid in victory braids or family plait.

It wasn’t a half-bad job, really. Wild wanted to laugh at the ill-fitting braid, but instead he smiled wobbly at Wind, handing back the shield. “Thank you.” Wind beams at him, and wanders back to return the shield to Legend. He’s pulled into a conversation with Warriors, and Wild is left alone.

Well, he’s not really alone. He has eight friends to keep him company, after all.

Would it ever make up for those he lost, he wondered?

~~~

The second time Wild tried to bring his companions to a town in his Hyrule, he ran into a bit of an issue.

The first time hadn’t been a big deal. They had been dropped at the entrance to Rito village. They had scared Muzli, the guard stationed there, half to death. Wild had apologized profusely to him for the abrupt entrance, and led the rest of the heroes to the inn for the night. 

They had been swept away through another portal before they had time to make it to another village. Wild hadn't bothered to think of the state of his companions' hair then. Not when no one in Rito Village would think about it either. Most of the Rito probably wouldn’t even notice, and those who did would just think it strange. (The Rito, of course, did not follow the same traditions as Hylians did involving hair, as they didn’t have any.) 

The second time, the portal dumped them right onto Kakariko Bridge. It was still early in the day, leaving them plenty of time to make it to Kakariko before the sunset, leaving them with no need to head to Dueling Peaks Stable for the night

They were halfway to the town before the realization struck Wild. There was absolutely no way he could take the others into the middle of the Sheikah town the way they looked.

The realization had him stopping in his tracks at the front of the group, mouth hanging open in shock at his own absentmindedness. 

Hyrule, who had been trailing after him and chatting with Sky, bumped into him before he realized the Champion had stopped moving. “Wild? Why’d you stop?”

Wild buried his face in his hands, groaning slightly. By then, the rest of the heroes had caught up to them, and had noticed his distress. “I can't believe I forgot.” He offered by way of an explanation, although it wasn’t a very good one. It was true, though. He himself had been so shocked at their appearance when they had first met, he couldn’t believe he had become adjusted to it so quickly. 

Going back to the stable wasn’t really an option either, and he really did need to speak to Impa. They would need to go to Kakariko, which meant…

“Does everyone have cloaks?“ There was a general murmur of agreement that they did, although they all sounded confused. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, there was no reason for cloaks. Despite their confusion, Wild was able to relax for a moment.

Wild always wore his cloak around both Kakariko and Hateno, and more recently, Tarry Town. People knew who he was, knew of his refusal to braid his hair. Most were willing to overlook it- he was the hero, after all. He wore the cloak nonetheless, as he found it made people more at ease when they couldn’t see his unwoven locks. 

All nine of them wearing cloaks when it wasn’t cold or raining would get them weird looks, but it would be better than not being let into the inn because they looked like a group of mercenaries, or cultists, or Yiga spies. They wouldn’t have the excuse of being the Hero for their appearance.

He was pulled out of his relieved thoughts by Wind’s voice. “Um, I don’t have a cloak. Why?” Wild stared at Wind, his mind running a mile an hour. The situation didn’t call for this much panic. He could just have the group stay put for a little bit, and run ahead to buy Wind a cloak at the store in Kakariko, but something about it made his heart stutter in his chest. 

He knew his obvious agitation was making the other heroes uneasy. But Wild didn’t really know what to say. He didn’t know how to explain why it was important that they cover their hair, why Wild himself didn’t really need to. Would cloaks even be enough to hide their hair? Probably not. The front part of their hair would still hang out of the hood, and it would draw attention. 

Wind tried again after receiving no reply. “My cloak ripped a little while ago. I was gonna buy a new one in the next town we visit. Why does it matter? It doesn’t look like it’s gonna rain.”

“You��ll need it to get into town. Here,” Wild was ushering them along the path before they could even protest. Just around the bend, there was a break in the tall cliffs alongside the path, leading to a small space that, a year ago, had belonged to a camp of bokoblins that had stolen Hetsu’s Maracas. The clearing was far enough off-road that it would keep them out of the sight of any possible travelers coming along the road. With only a few more words of explanation, he was gone, headed into town at a sprint.

~~~

“Thank you so much,” He said to the shopkeeper breathlessly. She had startled when he had come bursting into the shop, asking for a cloak several sizes too small for him, but she had complied easily. 

He hesitates before he leaves, thinking of something else that he might need. Then he leaned back over the counter, voice dropping to be a little quieter for his next request.

~~~

The others had dispersed through the clearing while Wild was away. Hyrule and Time looked up from where they were sitting at the base of a tree when he passed, but Wild didn’t pay attention to them, slowing to a stop in front of where Legend and Wind were talking, brandishing the cloak he had bought. The one he had gotten was a lovely dark blue. It was made more for rain than to keep out the cold, but Wild had figured that would be more useful to the sailor in the long run. 

“Here, put it on.” 

Wind opened his mouth to protest or to question him, but must have seen something in Wild’s eyes that made him hesitate. He took the cloak, slinging it over his shoulder and fastening the clasp. Wild ran an inspecting eye over him. He had purposefully gotten one that would be a little too big for the sailor, making the hood fall in front of his face a bit. The cloak would probably need to be hemmed. Wind could grow into it and let down the hem as he needed to. 

“Where’s your hair ties?” Wild questioned after he had satisfied himself. 

“My pack,” Wind answered, already digging through his bag, “Why? Do you need some?”

“No, you do.” Wild replied, taking the hair ties from Wind, then gesturing for him to turn his head so Wild could get at his hair.

Wind frowned at him, as squiggly as always, and didn’t move. “Why would I need to use my hair ties? I only keep them for Arryl! My hair isn’t that long, and I’m not a girl, anyways!”

“Yeah,” Legend interjected from where he stood, arms crossed and frowning at Wild. His face was pinched, like he was staring at a puzzle he couldn’t solve. “What's all this about?” 

Wild rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. He had gotten so caught up in his own head that he had sort of forgotten that the others would have no frame of reference to his actions. His actions would look strange to the others, especially when he’s been less than forthcoming with information about this, in the past and today. It made sense the others would be getting concerned. He had to tell them. 

“Remember when I said it was normal for people in my Hyrule to keep their hair long?” Receiving nods, he continued. “Well, it’s more like everyone does. Everyone. All the time. People only cut their hair in extreme circumstances. Usually bad ones. Or you might get your hair cut as punishment for a crime. You guys really can’t go walking into a town like that, especially if you want to get into the inn or speak to Impa.” 

“There's not a lot we can do about that,” Time interjected, having stood up from where he was sitting with Hyrule. “And besides that, it’s not our custom to keep our hair long, or braided.” 

“I know,” Wild said, mentally pleading for them to understand. “I’m not saying you have to grow it out, but I mean it when I say you can’t walk into town like that. Especially a Sheikah town. You literally won’t be let in anywhere. The cloaks are to hide your hair length.”

“It’s that serious?” Wild heard Warriors quietly mutter to Twilight from where they had gravitated toward the conversation. Most of the others had joined now, and Wild tried not to shrink inwards at all the eyes on him. 

Wild gestured again for Wind to turn, and the sailor finally complied, twisting his head to the side so Wild could get at the hair framing his face more easily. Wild went to work. He didn't even have to think about what braid to give him. A sailor’s braid was the obvious choice. As far as Wild remembered, he had never woven this braid himself, but he had seen it plenty of times in Lurelin, and it wasn’t that hard to recreate. 

As he worked, Wind stared at him curiously out of the corner of his eye. “Okay, so the cloaks are to hide our hair, but what about these braids? Why do I have to have one?”

“You all do,” Wild plowed ahead, interrupting any protests. “Listen, it’s just for a little bit. The length of the hair isn’t the only important thing? They don’t mean anything bad, okay? The one I’m giving Wind means that he’s a sailor.” He drew away from, having finished and tied off Wind’s braid.

Wind reached up, feeling at his hair. “Wow, really? They have different meanings? That’s cool!”

Wild left him to his exploration and turned towards Legend, raising an eyebrow. Besides Wild and Four, Legend probably had the longest hair out of the group. Legend scowled, but nodded. Wild took hold of one of Legend’s sideburns- the one that was stained pink- and started his work. (Wild still wondered what caused the odd color, but refrained himself from asking at the moment.)

For Legend, Wild decided to give him a braid that signified magical powers. Zelda had worn it before the Calamity, Wild remembered. (She had always felt guilty for it, as she had never exhibited any magical power.) Wild himself had even worn it on occasion, before. His ability to slow time was not the most flashy power, but he still had it, so he had worn the braid occasionally. Legend was much more dedicated to channeling his magic through items and weapons, but he was still incredibly powerful. That was something to be celebrated.

“Why, though?” Legend asked “Why is it so important that we do this?”

The constant questions prickled at Wild’s skin. He didn't begrudge them for being curious. Wild was asking them to do something that was very out of the ordinary, at least to them. He understood they had questions. But it felt like the questions were making him tiptoe around a topic he really had no desire to speak with anyone about, much less the other heroes. He didn’t want them to know what he was doing.

Not that he was really doing anything. The opposite, really. That was kind of the point.

His hands stalled halfway through making Legend’s braid, as he tried to think of how to explain to someone who had no context to the practice of hair braiding. ”Is it sort of a religious thing? I think, at least…” 

Wild sighed, frustrated. He figured he could just start from the beginning. “Not everyone keeps their hair as long as they possibly can. Some keep it a little shorter for practical reasons. Fighters, farmers, and other physical laborers. But everyone keeps it long enough to braid it. The braids tell others who you are. It’s your identity being shown for the world to see, a way to celebrate and be proud of who you are. Your family plait, braids for different professions, different ages, different roles that people play in society.’

“It’s not just your identity, also. There are braids for winning great victories in battle, or personal victories, for marriages, pretty much anything. People who don’t wear braids make others wary, because it’s a sign you don’t really belong anywhere. Having your hair cut as punishment is a sign that society has deemed you unfit to participate in the tradition.”

“But your Zelda cuts her hair short, doesn’t she?” Hyrule seemed to regret the question the moment he finished speaking, realizing it may be a sensitive topic.

Wild shook his head, frowning. “That’s none of your business.” No one protested how abruptly he shut down that line of questioning.  

“So that’s why you have to keep the length of your hair hidden while you're in the village. Not only could they think you're criminals, but criminals aren’t the only people who have short hair. The Yiga, for one example, cut their hair short as a sign that they’ve severed ties with the goddess, and worship the Calamity.” The others stay silent at that explanation. They were all aware of the Yiga; Wild had told them as a precautionary measure the first time they had landed in his Hyrule. Needless to say it had not gone over well. It was still a bit of a touchy subject. Wild could understand. If any of the others were hunted by a cult of assassins, he wouldn’t be happy either. 

“I’m weaving your hair because most people have their family plaits, at least, framing their faces. It’ll seem strange if you don’t and I don’t want people to have any reason to look closer.” Wild continued when no one said anything, finally realizing he had been staring at the half-done braid in his hand the whole time he had been speaking, and continued with that too. “You probably wouldn’t be kicked out if people saw- I wasn't the first time I wandered in, and my hair was atrocious,” Wild took a moment to grimace in embarrassment, before moving on, “But you won’t be able to speak to Impa, or go into any of the shops or the inn.”

Time spoke up, voice heavy with interest. “And you can't vouch for us?”

Wild shook his head vehemently. “No. The only reason people allow me to get away with it is because everyone knows I’m the hero. I sort of get a pass, and even then people treat me… differently.” (He definitely should not have said that. Several of the other heroes did not look happy about that.) “I really don’t want to explain that you have different cultural ideals about hair because you’ve time traveled, and I doubt anyone would believe me anyways.” Time nodded his assent, looking disappointed, but not surprised. 

The next to speak was Legend. “You said it was religious practice, though. What’s that about?” 

Wild considered for a moment. “Well, the practice itself isn’t really religious, but taking out your braids is seen as a very intimate thing. People do it when they’re at home, but also when they’re praying. It's a way to bare yourself in front of the gods. Hair in general is… sacred, in a way. It’s a very personal thing to let someone touch your hair, and unless you are unable to do so, the only person who should be cutting it is yourself.” 

When no one else asked another question, Wild let himself relax for a moment, glad the interrogation was over. “So, that’s kind of the gist of it.” He let out a gusty sigh. 

Well, no one, until- “What about you? Why don’t you wear braids?” It was Legend who asked, although WiId had no doubt the rest of them were thinking it. Of course Legend was the one to ask. He’d never been one to shy away from difficult topics

“I haven’t needed any until now. I’ll do mine after I do all of yours.” It was the truth, just not the whole truth. He still didn't technically need to. The Sheikah had grown used to his unbraided hair, but he knew he had to give himself one to appease the others. It wasn’t fair to ask them to adhere to his culture if he wasn’t even participating.

The other heroes weren’t stupid. They all knew there was more to it than that, more that he wasn’t telling them. But the excuse would get them off his back and give him a chance to think of what braid he would give himself to appease them. The rest of them dispersed slowly after that, sitting against the trunks of nearby trees, or going to admire the view from the seer drop-off nearby. 

He allowed himself to become lost in thought. 

Who even was he? Who could he claim to be? A knight? No, definitely not. He wasn’t a knight anymore. He served no one, much less any non-existent military or monarchy. 

Could he claim to be a hero? Wild didn’t like to think so, but these venerated heroes of the past seem to have accepted him as one of them, and seemed to have absorbed him into their ranks. 

Could he claim to be his parents’ child? Not anymore. He couldn’t even remember them, besides snippets. He didn’t know if he wanted to remember them. They were too far away for him to reach, trapped in the past he couldn’t ever go back to. It would only bring him pain. It would only bring him heartbreak.

What was he? 

What was notable about himself that was solely his own, and not something gifted to him by his parents, by the king, by Hylia herself? 

Anything that he used before the Calamity wasn’t applicable anymore. He had forgotten everything, everyone. He had rebuilt himself from the ground up, dragging himself up from a stumbling child to a sure-footed traveler.

He was no longer the skilled swordsman he was before. He had instead turned towards the bow, leaning into the long-range weapon that was more useful for keeping a single traveler alive in his Hyrule. 

That was something he was. He was an archer. He had picked up a bow with only a vague idea of what it was, and taught himself how to use it. Missed shot after missed shot, bokoblin after bokoblin, he had perfected his craft, a symbol of his determination to reshape himself- not as a hero, but as Link.

He couldn’t call himself a hero, but he could call himself an archer.

By the time he had made his decision, he had worked through most of the others. He’s glad for the hair ties he asked the shopkeeper for. Wind’s couple of ties wouldn’t have been enough for all of them. 

He had given Warriors and Sky a knight’s braid, of course. Time was given a farmer’s braid. He had seemed to appreciate it over something that represented his fighting skills, when Wild had told him what it represented. Twilight got the same. 

Before Wild couldn’t move onto Hyrule, Twilight grasped him gently by the wrist. “Wild, we’re okay with doing this to blend into your Hyrule, but I just wanted to ask if you were alright with doing this. If this is a Sheikah custom, they shouldn’t be forcing it on you too. I think we’ve all noticed you're very particular about your hair. You never braid it, but now…” Twilight trailed off when he saw the look his words created on Wild’s face. 

“No,” The denial was automatic, but as he fruitlessly tried to find the words. He finally settled on. “It’s a Hylian thing too.” 

Twilight released his grip on Wilds wrist, seemingly assured he wouldn’t move away. His brows furrowed. “Then you…”

“I just don’t.” Wild settled on the simplest answer. The easiest one. It was true. He just didn’t. Did they really need to know why? 

Twilight nodded slowly, “Alright. You’ve just been acting very…” His scowl deepened for a moment, although Wild knew his frustration probably wasn’t directed at him. The rancher ran his hand through his hair, sweeping back his bangs. “You can talk to any of us about this, you know that, right?” Wild could read between the lines of Twilight’s words. I’m gonna leave this alone for now, but I don’t believe you when you say you’re fine.

He nodded mutely, and Twilight moved away from him, quickly being replaced by Hyrule. Wild’s hands started moving through the traveler’s hair automatically, not paying attention to Hyrule's worried gaze on him. 

~~~

“Oh, Link…” Paya’s voice was soft. It wasn’t quite pity; it was the opposite, really. There was a sort of awe in her voice that Wild couldn’t place. Paya reached a hand out towards his hair- towards the archer’s braid he had put in his hair- and Wild couldn’t stop himself from twitching away from her. Paya gave him that familiar nervous smile of hers, and let her hand drop. 

“I think… um, I’m glad that- that you found- some people to travel with.” She nodded firmly at him, her own braid swayed with her movements. As far as Wild could remember, that particular braid meant that she was the heir to a noble family, which would demark her position as Impa’s heir. After a moment’s pause, she moved to continue past him to her grandmother’s house, tossing a significant look over her shoulder as she did. 

~~~

Wild drew his fingers through his hair, carding out the single braid until his hair was straight again. His movements were slow and contemplative.

He knew one or more of the other heroes were probably watching him from where they sat by the fire, but he also knew that prayer was considered a private thing in most, if not all of their Hyrules, and they would turn away when they realized what he was doing. 

He picked up the hair tie from where he had set it in his lap when he took it out, and placed it on the long, low table between the statue and him. The single tie looked pathetic on the table. It was big enough to have room for more adornments than Wild could imagine using. Even before- before the calamity, before his death- he had never had enough ornaments in his hair to fill a table like this.

For a moment, he wondered how he knew that, before a memory began to nudge at the back of his conciseness. This time he doesn't hesitate to allow it to overtake his mind. 

His hands are practiced and steady as they swiftly remove his braids. One by one, the beads and ties holding them in place are removed and set on the gilded table in front of him. 

First comes the main braid falling down his back that marks him as a knight. The blue ribbon and golden bead that declares him as a member of the royal guard are carefully removed and laid in front of him. Then the smaller braid that frames the left side of his face that marks him as a master swordsman.

He leaves that braid on the right side of his face that declares him to be his parent’s son to last, but when he has nothing else to do, he reluctantly unravels that one too, and carefully sets his family bead down on the table.

When he’s finished, he takes a moment to look at his beads and ties laid out on the table he kneels in front of. He’s never used a prayer table as ostentatious as this one before. It’s made of a dark ebony that looks even darker next to the bright golden inlays in the wood. The entire thing is intricately carved. The table is probably worth more than a month of his salary.

It’s nothing to the glamor of the rest of the cathedral, though. Gold glimmers everywhere, glinting in the midday sun that finds its way through the large stained glass windows behind the altar. The ceiling arches high over his head, gloriously painted with the story of Hylia descending to live among mortals during the time of the first chosen hero.

His breath sounds too loud in the large space. His heart beat rushing in his ears drowns out the sounds of shuffling and coughs from the nobles who sit in the pews behind where he and Zelda kneel. The King sits there too, and Link feels himself straighten up subconsciously at the thought of the King watching him.

Zelda takes much longer than him to finish unbraiding and brushing out her hair.

Her hair is longer than his. She is a princess, with more time in her day to spend on formalities such as brushing it and braiding it, and he is a knight who needs to keep his hair a slightly shorter length than most people. To do otherwise was simply asking for trouble on the battlefield. Not only that, but she has many more ornaments than he would ever need. 

He knows the meaning of some of them, while others are a mystery to him. The one braid she’s working on right now has four beads woven into it. Each of the beads were gifted to her by the different tribes of Hyrule. One from the Gerudo, one from the Gorons, one from the Zora, and one from the Rito. They showed their support of the young princess, and symbolized their loyalty to her future reign. 

Link feels slightly awkward waiting for her to finish. He’s not sure what to do while he waits, or where to look. It feels wrong to look at her while she unbraids her hair. It’s too vulnerable and intimate. Things like this should be kept for the privacy of your own home, or at the very least, your own bunk in the barracks, where the other recruits have the decency to look away. Not here in a cathedral with scores of people looking on. But then again, Zelda is a princess. She's been doing ceremonies like this her entire life. She’s probably more than used to it by now. 

He lets his eye fall on the stony visage of Hylia that stares back down at him while he waits- it seems like the safest place to look- and tries to forget the many other stares burning into his back.

He shivered slightly when he snapped back to the present. It had cooled down significantly since he went under, and a brisk breeze was blowing against his chilled skin. This memory seemed to have lasted a bit longer than the first, for the air to have cooled off this much, but the sun had not yet set, so it couldn’t have been too long.

It was an odd feeling. He was once more in Hylia’s sight, bare and unlabeled. He was no longer Link, the warrior, the knight, the hero. He is no longer Link, his mother’s son. He is no longer Link, lover of the Zora princess. He is just Link, himself. 

Somehow, he felt ten times as bare and open and vulnerable before the goddess here, in a small shrine within a small village, with a small audience- if anyone was watching him at all- then he did in that great cathedral, with seemingly half the world looking on.

This was not the first time he had prayed to Hylia, but it was the first time he had ever had use of the table in front of her shrine.

He does not know how spiritual he had been before he died. He doesn’t even know if he had ever prayed to the goddess of his own accord, and not as part of some ceremony.  But then he had woken up in that tomb, somehow stumbled into the Temple on the Great Plateau, and found that statue of Hylia. 

It was smaller than the one in his memory, less imposing, but somehow it seemed all the more holy for it. There had been a presence there that he had never felt before, but which seemed overwhelmingly familiar regardless. The face of the statue had been weathered away by a hundred years of rain and wind that seeped into the temple through the ruined walls and roof, but its hazy features had made him straighten up and run a self-conscious hand through his hair. 

He hadn’t known why he had felt the urge at the time. 

He hadn’t known why the ghost king had looked upon him with such surprise when he first laid eyes on the newly awakened hero.

Now, when he thinks back to his tangled hair, messy from a hundred years of sleep, and wet with the slippery liquid that had filled the Shrine, he cringes. 

The ghost king had been kind enough to instruct him to bathe in one of the many shallow ponds on the Plateau. That had at least gotten rid of the clear goo from the shrine, which had still clung to him hours after he crawled his way out of his tomb. He had owned no comb to untangle and straighten his hair, and his fingers were of little use, not with all the knots, but his hair had at least been clean.

The cleanliness had not lasted long after he had gotten off the plateau. Wild didn’t even want to think about what he must have looked like when he wandered into Kakariko. 

At the time, he hadn’t understood why Dorian had refused to let him up the stairs to Impa’s house. 

Paya had been the one to get Dorain to let him up the stairs, insisting that he did in fact, need to speak to Impa, quite urgently, and she would be more than enough to protect her grandmother if need be. 

He didn't doubt she would have been able to protect Impa. Paya was a shy girl,  and remained flustered around him to this day, but she was the granddaughter to the leader of the last remnants of the Sheikah. The Sheikah were a warrior people, and Paya was not an exception. She was more than a match for him, most days. Back then, when he was still weak from the shrine, all skinny, and learning to provide for himself, and skittish of people in general, Wild had no doubt she would have been able to protect Impa had he had tried anything

Regardless, it was a miracle they had let him talk to Impa in the state he had been in.

Since then, he’d learned. Partly from his memories, and partly from the kindness of Dorain, Paya, Bolson, and others, he had learned why it was important to keep himself presentable, to brush his hair, and keep it clean, even if he refused to braid it.  

He knew they disapproved of him wearing it unbraided.They thought he had done nothing to strip him of that right.

It didn’t matter what they thought. It was his hair. It was his choice.

He bowed his head over his single hair tie, and started his prayers.

~~~

Zelda found him later. 

She approached only after he had finished praying, and had sat himself on the edge of the small island the goddess statue rested on. He had no doubt that she had already introduced herself to the other heroes in the meantime. Or rather, interrogated them. No doubt she was bursting with questions. He had tried to preemptively answer as many as he could them in the letter he had sent to her when the group had visited Rito Village, but he had no doubt she had come up with more. 

When she sat down though, she didn’t interrogate him, instead sitting silently next to him. When he finally looked up from the water, he saw she wore a single pearl strung on a thin silver chain. 

She was not wearing it as a necklace.

The chain was woven into her crown of hair, the pearl coming to rest in the middle of her forehead. 

It wasn't a crown. Not really. But it was close enough. Everyone would know what it meant. 

“Sidon gave it to me,” She admitted. “He asked me… if I would wear it. I said yes,” She rushed on with her words, as if she thought Wild was going to interrupt her. “He doesn't understand the true importance of wearing braids, but he understands a little about wearing crowns… about the weight of the kingdom resting on you. And he didn’t even ask me to grow my hair out, he only asked me to wear one pearl. Just one.” 

She was breathless by the time she finished, and refused to look at Wild, like she was afraid he would tell her she wasn’t worthy of this. As if he would be angry with her for healing, when he himself didn’t know if he could bring himself to. 

She was right. Sidon did not share the same traditions as the Hylians and the Sheikah. None of the Zora did. (How could they? None of them had hair. The Gorons, and the Rito were the same. The Gerudo as well. Although they did have hair, they didn’t share very many traditions and practices with Hylians.) Sidon did not understand the tradition. But he did understand the pressure of ruling, the seemingly insurmountable task that Zelda was facing alone. Sidon knew that part of Zelda’s struggles far more intimately than Wild could ever hope to.

Not knowing what he could say. Wild said nothing. He leaned against her, tucking his head into the crook of her neck. Soft strands of her hair tickled his nose. She didn’t push him away, allowing him to stay. Her eyes remained fixed on the ripping water in front of them, which gleamed in the very last rays of the settling sun. She didn’t even seem to be paying attention when her hand automatically lifted and settled itself in his thick locks. 

Her hand carded through his hair slowly, working out non-existent tangles. She leaned away from him, and he let her, but instead of standing, or continuing to stare at the water, she turned to him, and motioned for him to face away from her.

He does. 

Her fingers were practiced and sure as she worked with his hair. She’s had the duty of braiding her own hair since she was released from the calamity, and her fingers have grown much steadier since she began.

He knows what braid she gives him. He does not ask, and she does not say, but he knows. It is one he has never won before, even before the Calamity, when he had done nothing to earn it yet except draw a sacred sword. 

He remains quiet, passive- which he realizes is very unlike himself- when Zelda reaches behind them, takes his hair tie from the prayer table. There's a moment of stillness between them, and neither of them break it, except to settle back together to ward off the evening chill. Wild’s sure they make an odd pair pressed together: a crownless princess with a pearl woven into her hair, and a disgraced knight with the hero’s braid in his hair.

#i know most of them don't actually have hair long enough to braid but shhhh i'm ignoring canon #one of your favs in botw has short hair??? not anymore #Wild and Flora are in a QPR #mint's fanfiction #linked universe #Lu fanfiction #Lu wild #Lu wind #Lu twilight #Lu hyrule #Lu time #Lu four #Lu sky #Lu warriors #Lu legend #self harm #implied self harm #emotional self harm #metaphorical self harm #hair braiding #hair cuts #lu flora

[nrdmssgs]

Many questions about Zhar incoming!

I love her being always in control of situation and seeming to have a plan. But are there any situations, that unsettle her, make her "I`m so confused, I dont know what to do about that"?

🍇anon

Ohhhhh, LOVE))) Believe me, she is so much NOT in control in Matters. She will eventually come up with a plan, but for now the girl is doomed.

But I don't want to talk about the sad stuff today. So there is another thing, she will never understand and never know what to do with it. And that is Kruegers chest tattoo. So she is not the biggest fan of official soviet or Russian symbols because of all the bad memories, she got from the motherland. She can bear with Nikolais telnyashka (as long as she is allowed to take it off him), but a Russian coat of arms on her favorite Chimera??? Oh, she will be devastated. I even cooked a little scene.

TW: swearing

AN: I don't approve of her behavior here and personally find it very unprofessional to make any commentaries on others ways of self-expression. Kruegers body is HIS BUSINESS! If anything, Zhar must apologize for being an absolute asshole. Also, there is a very short appearance of Phayvanh "Nak" Sotsvahn (she belongs to @vasyandii). I couldn't help myself, because in my hear KruegerxNak is a canon. Of course, I'll remove any mentions of Nak if Vasya doesn't find it amusing, what is happening here.

"Verdammter Scheiß!*" Krueger frantically shook his shirt over the sofa, not paying any attention to the cold wind touching his bare skin. His jacket laid on the armrest nearby. The only thing, that mattered to him, was to find that goddamn...

"If that's a part of your tactics to convince me for a rise - then my answer is 'no'." Familiar voice, but not the one, Krueger awaited to hear - Zhars voice. She turned on a lamp and proceeded to the desk, not paying that much attention to him.

His initial reaction was automatic. 'It's not, what you think.' thrown over his shoulder abruptly, as he continued searching his own clothes. But then Krueger froze. "Wait, commander, it is Nikolai's office, right?"

By that time Zhar already settled in front of the computer and waited for the tables she needed to appear on the screen. She looked too concentrated on her work to pay any attention to Krueger, but answered him nevertheless.

"It is my office. Niks is next door. Feel free to go charm him with your bare back, I'm sure, he'd find it quite amusing..."

"I'm not... Oh, fuck! Did you two absolutely had to get the same couches in your offices? I thought, only Nikolai had it!" Krueger cursed under his breath and added, "I promise, I'm out of here as soon as I find it!"

Olga finally shifted her concentration from the work and stood up.

"Ok, Krueger, do I need to know why the hell you've lost something on my couch, while I was attending meetings?"

"I didn't lose it on your couch, I lost it somewhere in my pockets! So I was trying to shake the goddamn thing out, but I didn't want it to fall on the floor and roll somewhere. That's when I remembered about Niks... well, yours sofa." By the time, he was done explaining, Zhar already stood beside him and searched the couch to help the poor man.

"At least enlighten me, what are we looking for," she muttered.

"A rock. Tiny lil shit! She always gives me the best ones, and for once in my life I finally found a rock to match her gifts, and it gets lost!" Krueger sounded genuinely annoyed.

Zhar paused for a moment. "So you say, we are looking for your gift for a girl... and it's a rock? Sebastian, please, at least tell me, it is attached to a piece of metal in a form of a ring... Otherwise, I'll start to worry about your relationship with whoev-"

"So keep your nose away from my relationship!" He was ready to verbally attack Olga, not carrying for her higher rank, when she pulled a little rock out of a fold between couch cushions. Kruegers face instantly softened. "Thanks, commander!"

He extended his hand to the stone, turning completely to Zhar and her gaze fell somewhere down. Olgas expression changed in a second, going from tired, but friendly to lost and angry.

"What the hell is that?!"

At first, he didn't understand her, thinking, there was some kind of smear on his bare belly or pants. Krueger checked himself, but he was completely clean. But when she poked her finger under his chest and growled, 'as far as I know, you are even not from there. Why the hell would you need this thing on you?'.

"Ah-h-h, you're about my ink? What's with it?" He looked confused down, then raised his gaze back on her.

"Krueger, how on earth did you think, it would be a good idea to leave this on your skin?!" Krueger seen Zhar angry, even pissed on the battlefield. But now she looked a hundred times more dangerous. So he quickly pulled on his shirt, not quite understanding, what did he do wrong. Somehow, his commander was absolutely ok about his criminal record, but his choice of tattoos drove her mad.

***

Nikolai was smoking with Yegor leaning against the wall, when Krueger practically flew out of a main building, dodging a heavy folder of papers thrown after him.

Olga's scream followed. "Hide this mark of shame and don't even think about showing it to anyone! Especially her!!"

"There is my treasure." Nik huffed with a wide grin, watching as Zhar left a building, following Krueger.

It seemed, only Nikolais open arms and soft smile saved Sebastian from being followed by the same folder, thrown yet again at him. Olga sighed, turned back and hid her face on his broad chest.

"Synishka sovsem otbilsya ot ruk?*" Yegor smirked, taking another drag.

"Ne nachinai...*" Zhar grumbled, still pressed firmly to Nikolai.

They stood like that for some time: men smoking in a comfortable silence, Nikolai playing with Olgas hair, looking somewhere deep in shadows between the hangars, Yegor smiling to his own thoughts. After a few minutes, they've heard Phayvanhs voice.

"For me? You really spent so much time, to find a rock, that looks like a head of a guy, I flatlined on the last mission? And saved it for me??? Man, you are the best, you know that?!"

She sounded so happy, that both Yegor and Nikolai couldn't help, but smiled with the utmost tenderness. Only Zhar froze for a moment only to hug Nik firmer and mutter "Ok, maybe I do need to raise Kruegers payroll after all..."

Verdammter Scheiß! - bloody hell

Synishka sovsem otbilsya ot ruk? - Has your son completely gotten out of hand?

Ne nachinai... - Don't even start...

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod oc #phayvanh nak sotsvahn #cod mw oc #KruegerNak #oc x canon #cod #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #call of duty mw2 #cod nikolai #nikolai cod #nikolai reboot call of duty #cod krueger #krueger cod #sebastian krueger

[lexezombie]

I realize I should post these on here since tumblr might like them more than twitter did

I wanna preface it first by saying: some of these were requested by my friends and were made back in 2020 + 2021 so some of these are outdated/other people have made the same thing - but I feel like showing them anyway

I made a whole twt thread about them in 2022 for pride month : )

SO NOW LETS LOOK AT SOME FLAGS!

Bambi Lesbian (ace lesbian) In the 80s there was a term for lesbians that were specifically ace: Bambi (stripes: butch, stem, femme, andro, nonbinary & trans) I'm not actually sure how true this is, but I remember seeing a post about it

2. Fem-Nonbinary (she/they) + Masc-Nonbinary (he/they)

These are basically outdated completely since other people have created very similar versions; if not the exact same thing

3. Queer Army

This one has a lot to explain. I am in no way a supporter of war, obviously- but I've noticed the closest thing gay-veterans have is the flag that's for an army kink; and that doesn't... feel right?

I felt it was needed since being queer in the military is discriminated against both while both in AND out of it-- so this one is for all of the gays, queers, etc that had to go into the military for any reason (to put themselves through school, to get benefits(?), draft, etc)

(each of the stripes in the background represents the branches of the military Light blue: Air-force, Pale blue: Marines, Pale cyan(?): Coast Guards, Dark blue: Navy, Green: Army)

4. Ambi

er... kinda? I made this before I knew about the term ambi (within the context of mono/poly) specifically for myself since I didn't feel 100% mono or 100% poly

tbh with the infinity sign and seeing it again myself its giving me autism vibes so ig younger me accidently made an autism-poly flag?? Has anyone made a QPR flag...?

5. Parsexual (masc) + Parsexual (fem)

This one is important to me: its one I made specifically for myself, as a label to use after people got angry at me just calling myself gay & I felt the labels I did have were long-winded to say & 'queer' didn't quite fit. The original one I made had symbols on it (heart and spade; heart for sexual/romantic & spade for ace/romantic)

the main difference between Masc + Fem is the colour swap The Masc one is sexual/romantic towards men/masc & ace/romantic towards women/fem; so the Fem is reversed

The name is a combo of partial & sexual (it made sense to my brain)

(Stripes: Colours: light blue - femme men, darker blue - andro men, purple - masc men, white - nonbinary/andro/fluid/etc, pink - femme women, orange - andro women, dark orange - masc women)

#pride #LGBT+ #lgbtqia #lexart #kinda? #flag design #flag #queer #pride flags #nonbinary #lesbian #gay #asexual #polyamory #idk if ambi has a tag? #this is an anti terf post btw lmao #protrans acc sorry terfs #we also respect pronouns round here pardner

[sunshinebingo]

A Pearl For Luck

Written for @sjmromanceweek Day 1

Link to Ao3

I wanted to have fun with this and try something new but feel free to let me know if you think it's trash 😆 Thanks @headcanonheadcase for giving me the courage to actually start writing it and bestie @shadowsxgwynriel for giving me your opinion!!!! Anyway thanks for reading lovely people. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the Summer Court ☀️🌊⛱️

Pairing: Gwyneth Berdara x Tarquin

Synopsis: Gwyn meets the handsome High Lord of the Summer Court.

Word Count: 2.2k

.....

The sound of waves crashing on the side of Adriata Palace filled Gwyneth’s ears as soon as they winnowed onto a terrace overlooking the sea. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in the salty air. The bright rays of the sun warmed her skin and made her silky copper hair look like molten metal.

For a moment, she forgot everyone around. All she knew was the sun, the breeze and the song of the sea calling to her. But someone actually calling her pulled her out of her reverie.

“Come on Gwyn they are waiting for us,” Emerie held out a hand towards her sister. Gwyn took her hand and together with Nesta, they entered the Summer Court Palace.

Varian escorted the Valkyries to the room that would be theirs during their 3 day stay in the court. They had been given a luxurious room fit for royalty consisting of a common room and 3 separate bedrooms. All 3 bedrooms had a view on the ocean but Gwyn found that hers was the best.

She had never seen anything as beautiful as the sea of the Summer Court, its hues creating a close match to her teal eyes. If she didn’t have to get ready for dinner with the High Lord, Gwyn would have been glad to just stand here and enjoy the view as well as the combined song of the sea and birds which created a perfect harmony. Since they would be here for 3 days, she would surely find some time to enjoy the sea at a closer distance than from the balcony of her bedroom.

So Gwyn decided that she would not leave this court without knowing first hand how deep and warm the sea of Adriata was. Her ancestors might have been River nymphs, but the ocean sang to her as much as the river waters did. With a sigh, Gwyn turned around and joined her sisters so they could start preparing themselves to meet the High Lord of the Summer Court.

Getting ready with her sisters was as animated as it always was in the House of Wind back in Velaris. The common room looked as if it has seen war with all the clothes, makeup and accessories strewn around.

“I hope the food is good because I’m starving,” Emerie said as she adjusted the top of her strapless jewel-toned emerald pant suit that fit her toned body to perfection. True to herself, Nesta had chosen to wear a very tight black dress with a plunging neckline. Combined with her updo and shining silver jewelleries, Nesta was the embodiment of Night Court glamour.

Gwyn had opted for a long ivory pearlescent dress with thin straps and a v-neckline that exposed a little cleavage and a slit that exposed her right leg. Looking at her reflection while she adjusted her loosely curled hair, Gwyn felt like one of the shiny pearls that were delicately displayed in each room.

Varian had explained earlier that pearls are not as common to find as some may believe. It is rare enough that to find one is a sign of luck and happiness to come. For this reason, every room in the Palace of Adriata contained at least one symbolic pearl to bring its guest luck and joy during their stay. Gwyn hoped that would be true for her.

Gwyn approached Nesta to help her finish her make-up. “I’m more worried about the people present than about the food.”

“Feyre and Rhys said that Tarquin is a nice male and that there are no reasons for us to feel uneasy here,” Nesta remarqued. Then she shrugged, “plus we are together so if things go badly we know how to defend ourselves.”

Gwyn scoffed, “we have been invited here for a vacation not to start a fight between the Night and Summer Courts.” When the Valkyries had talked about wanting to explore more of Prythian together at the last family dinner with the Inner Circle, Varian had generously offered them to come visit his home court. A few days later, everything was arranged and they were now ready to meet the High Lord of Summer to thank him for welcoming them in his court.

A few minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. Varian had come to escort the Valkyries to dinner. Nesta, Gwyn and Emerie followed him through endless corridors and large room until they reached a big stone terrace where a large round table was beautifully set up in tones of blues and greens. Beyond the edge, the sun was slowing beginning its descent on the horizon, turning the sky from blue to shades of orange and pink with all the colours reflecting on the ocean beneath it. The Valkyries were mesmerised by the view.

“This is breathtaking,” Gwyn whispered.

“I am happy that you like it,” came a voice from behind them. When the three females turned around, Gwyneth’s eyes set on one of the most beautiful being she had ever seen. The male’s rich brown skin seemed to glow in the slowly fading but still bright sunlight. His long white hair that beautifully contrasted against his skin was gently being blown by the salty breeze. His blue and gold outfit a perfect match to his turquoise eyes. With the powerful energy surrounding his presence combined with the crown of sapphire and gold fashioned like cresting waves that sat atop his head, there was no denying who he was.

“I am Tarquin. Welcome to the Summer Court ladies,” Tarquin bowed slightly with a hand on his heart. The Valkyries offered him a deeper bow.

“Thank you for having us in your home High Lord Tarquin,” Gwyn found her voice was slightly shaky.

“It is my pleasure Lady Gwyneth. And please just call me Tarquin,” and when Gwyn rose from her bow, she found the High Lord staring at her with a smile that made her knees so weak that she started to regret choosing to wear high heels.

“Then please call me Gwyn.” Her teal eyes found the High Lord’s turquoise ones.

“You have a beautiful name Gwyn.” She tried to stay calm but she felt her heart beating so fast that she was sure everyone around could hear it. She could not move, entranced by those beautiful eyes that seemed to be seeing straight through her.

Tarquin did not move either. He was rooted in place, bewitched by the beauty before him. The eyes he was looking into were the same shade as the bright sea of Adriata that he saw every single day yet he knew he would never tire of looking at it, just like he wanted to keep looking at those teal eyes that could rival the ocean in depth. He wanted to drown in them.

Someone cleared their throat. “I am Cresseida, Princess of Adriata,” the female slightly bowed at the three Valkyries. Right, there were people around. Gwyn turned to look at Cresseida. Emerie shared an amused look with Nesta and smirked in Gwyn’s direction before introducing herself and her sisters.

“Shall we?” Tarquin indicated the table behind them. Before Gwyn could seat herself between her 2 sisters, Emerie grabbed her arm and placed herself in the middle, leaving Gwyn next to the High Lord. Nesta snorted when Gwyn threw at scowl in Emerie’s way. Before she could even touch the chair, Tarquin hastily pulled it back, “please allow me,” he said with a charming smile.

No words came out of Gwyn so she just nodded in acceptance. When Tarquin’s hand brushed her bare shoulders as he removed his hands from her chair, she felt a delicious warmth spreading all across her body. Goosebumps erupted along her skin and Gwyn tightened her legs together at the sudden and unexpected feeling between them. When she looked up, she noticed that Tarquin’s smile had turned into a smirk that he was trying to conceal. Oh gods, Gwyn thought and wanted to smack herself for acting so ridiculous. Pull yourself together.

Fortunately, wine was served as soon as everyone was seated. Gwyn thanked the gods for the alcohol that would surely help calm her nerves. The conversation went on smoothly between everyone around the table. Tarquin and Cresseida seemed fascinated with the three females’ attempt to revive the old Valkyries while including new techniques and strategies. Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn were in turn thrilled to hear about the High Lord’s desire to unite High Fae and Lesser faeries. Being part lesser Fae herself, Gwyn couldn’t help but beam at the kindness and compassion of the High Lord. Though she had to admit that she had also been beaming for other reasons as well.

The wine has been very effective in helping her relax. In fact, she had drank so much to ‘relax’ that she was now a little tipsy. Not drunk. Just tipsy. With every sip she took, Gwyn found herself talking, smiling and laughing more. She had even dared to slightly graze Tarquin’s fingers when he had given her back the glass of wine that he had refilled for her. Just like it had happened earlier, she had felt the lingering feeling of his skin on hers. Her body felt hotter every time Tarquin would lean towards her when he wanted to ask her something about herself.

She knew he wasn’t indifferent to her either. She was neither blind nor clueless. Gwyn noticed how, when she wasn’t looking at him, Tarquin would still be looking at her. She saw how his smirk grew wider every time she laughed. Heard how he laughed louder than everyone else at her silly jokes. Gwyn thought that, because of his rank as High Lord, there was little chance that whatever was happening would end up being a fairytale. But she wanted to revel in the delicious feeling that their interaction was causing.

“I am afraid that the General of the Night Court has committed some damage in this court that now prevents him from coming here.” Tarquin was addressing Nesta but Gwyn had no idea how this conversation had started. “But you are very welcome here. I hope you wont resent us for resenting your mate though I totally understand if you do.’’

Nesta scoffed and smiled as she swirled her wine around in her glass. “I am mated to him. I know him well enough to know that whatever you’re mad at him for, he probably deserves it. That is why I have absolutely no guilt about being here.”

Gwyn snorted loudly and immediately covered her mouth. “I’m very sorry,” she said but did not stop laughing.

“Don’t apologise. That was cute,” Tarquin smirked at Gwyn and she blushed furiously. “You are very funny,” he laughed as he shook his head slightly.

“Thank you. And you are very charming,” it was her turn to smirk when he stopped laughing to look at her.

“Is that so?” Tarquin asked, his grin returning.

Instead of giving him an answer, Gwyn felt emboldened and winked at him. Tarquin raised an eyebrow at her and all the heat in her body rushed down to settle in her core. With how close their seats were to each other now, Gwyn knew it was impossible for him not to notice the scent of her evergrowing arousal. She found that she didn’t feel embarrassed at all. And that was because she could smell his as well.

A few moments later, Varian excused himself and mentioned that it was time for him to leave. Nesta, Emerie and Cresseida also stood up from their seats to leave. Gwyn stood as well. But she found that she was not yet ready to go to sleep. She looked beyond the balcony, at the horizon, where the sun had long set and where the moon had been reflecting on the sea for a long while. The song of the sea again drowned all the voices of the others exchanging their goodnights around her.

“Would you like to have a closer look at the ocean?” Tarquin offered beside Gwyn. She hadn’t notice that she had walked so close to the stone railing that her hands now rested on top of it. Gwyn looked back at her sisters who were waiting for her.

“Could you please give me a minute?” Gwyn told Tarquin with a smile and she hoped that he understood she wasn’t about to run away. He nodded and Gwyn went to join Nesta and Emerie. “I will be fine, I promise,” Gwyn reassured her sisters as she hugged them.

“Do you still have your dagger with you?” Nesta asked and Gwyn patted her covered thigh, indicating the weapon hidden beneath her dress. Better be safe than sorry.

“Always,” Gwyn responded with a mischievous grin.

Emerie narrowed her eyes at Gwyn. “High Lord or not, if anything bad happens, go for the balls first.”

Gwyn laughed and watched her sisters leave for their room. Then she turned to the handsome Tarquin who gave no indication that he had heard anything of her conversation with her sisters. He extended a hand towards her. Gwyn took it, still intent on following the song that had been calling to her ever since she had set foot in this place. “Lead the way.”

#sjmromanceweek2023 #gwyneth berdara #tarquin #nesta archeron #emerie of illyria #emerie #summer court #cresseida #varian #acotar

[winterfable]

Chrysalis: Am I really?

Then Sunrise kissed my Chrysalis— And I stood up—and lived— —Emily Dickinson.

I was three years old when I made the most important psychological discovery of my life. I discovered that a living creature, obeying its own inner laws, moves through cycles of growth, dies, and is reborn as a new creation.

One day I was smoking my corncob bubble­pipe helping my father in the garden. I always enjoyed helping him because he understood bugs, and flowers, and where the wind came from. I found a lump stuck to a branch, and Father explained that Catherine Caterpillar had made a chrysalis for herself. We would take it inside and pin it on the kitchen curtain. One day a butterfly would emerge from that lump.

Well, I had seen magic in my father's garden, but this stretched even my imagination. However, we carefully stuck the big pins through the curtain, and every morning I grabbed my doll and pipe and ran downstairs to show them the butterfly. No butterfly! My father said I had to be patient. The chrysalis only looked dead.  Remarkable changes were happening inside. A caterpillar's life was very different from a butterfly's, and they needed very different bodies. A caterpillar chewed solid leaves; a butterfly drank liquid nectar. A caterpillar was sexless, almost sightless, and landlocked; a butterfly laid eggs, could see and fly. Most of the caterpillar's organs would dissolve, and those fluids would help the tiny wings, eyes, muscles and brain of the developing butterfly to grow. But that was very hard work, so hard that the creature could accomplish nothing else so long as it was going on. It had to stay in that protective shell.

I waited for that sluggish glutton of a caterpillar to change into a delicate butterfly, but I secretly figured my father had made a mistake. Then one morning my doll and I were eating our shredded wheat when I sensed I was not alone in the kitchen. I stayed still. I felt a presence on the curtain. There it was, its wings still expanding, shimmering with translucent light—an angel who could fly. Its chrysalis was empty. That mystery on the kitchen curtain was my first encounter with death and rebirth.

Years later I discovered that the butterfly is a symbol of the human soul. I also discovered that in its first moments out of the chrysalis the butterfly voids a drop of excreta that has been accumulating during pupation. This drop is frequently red and sometimes voided during first flight. Consequently, a shower of butterflies may produce a shower of blood, a phenomenon that released terror and suspicion in earlier cultures, sometimes resulting in massacres. Symbolically, if we are to release our own butterfly, we too will sacrifice a drop of blood, let the past go and turn to the future.

It is the twilight zone between past and future that is the precarious world of transformation within the chrysalis. Part of us is looking back, yearning for the magic we have lost; part is glad to say good­bye to our chaotic past; part looks ahead with whatever courage we can muster; part is excited by the changing potential; part sits stone­still not daring to look either way. Individuals who consciously accept the chrysalis, whether in analysis or in life's experience, have accepted a life/death paradox, a paradox which returns in a different form at each new spiral of growth. In T.S. Eliot's "Journey of the Magi," one of the kings, having returned to his own

country, describes his experience in Bethlehem:

....so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory. All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.

If we accept this paradox, we are not torn to pieces by what seems to be intolerable contradiction. Birth is the death of the life we have known; death is the birth of the life we have yet to live. We need to hold the tensions and allow our circuit to give way to a larger circumference.

People splayed in a perpetual chrysalis, those who find life "weary, stale, flat and unprofitable"2

 or, to use the modern jargon, "boring," are in trouble. Stuck in a state of stasis, they clutch their childhood toys, divorce themselves from the reality of their present circumstances, and sit hoping for some magic that will release them from their pain into a world that is "just and good," a make-believe world of childhood innocence. Fearful of getting out of relationships that are stultifying their growth, fearful of confronting parents, partners or children who are maintaining infantile attitudes, they sink into chronic illness and/or psychic death. Life becomes a network of illusions and lies. Rather than take responsibility for what is happening, rather than accept the challenge of growth, they cling to the rigid framework that they have constructed or that has been assigned to them from birth. They attempt to stay "fixed." Such an attitude is against life, for change is a law of life. To remain fixed is to rot, particularly if it be in the Garden of Eden.

Why are we so afraid of change? Why, when we are so desperate for change, do we become even more desperate when transformation begins? Why do we lose our childhood faith in growing? Why do we cling to old attachments instead of submitting ourselves to new possibilities—to the undiscovered worlds in our own bodies, minds and souls? We plant our fat amaryllis bulb. We water it, give it sunlight, watch the first green shoot, the rapidly growing stock, the buds, and then marvel at the great bell flowers tolling their hallelujahs to the snow outside. Why should we have more faith in an amaryllis bulb than in ourselves? Is it because we know that the amaryllis is living by some inner law—a law that we have lost touch with in ourselves? If we can allow ourselves time to listen to the amaryllis, we can resonate with its silence. We can experience its eternal stillness. We can find ourselves at the heart of the mystery. And in that place, the place of the Goddess, we can accept birth and death. The exquisite blossom will die, but if the bulb is given rest and darkness, another bloom will come next year.

Insecurity lies at the heart of the fear of change. Individuals who recognize their own worth among those they love can leave and return without fear of separation.  They know they are valued for themselves. Our computerized society, fascinating and efficient as it is, is making deeper and deeper inroads into genuine human values.  A machine, however intricate, has no soul, nor does it move with the rhythms of instinct. A computer may be able to vomit out the facts of my existence, but it cannot fathom the subterranean corridors of my aloneness, nor can it hear my silence, nor can it respond to the shadow that passes over my eyes. It cannot compute the depth and breadth and height of the human soul. When society deliberately programs itself to a set of norms that has very little to do with instinct, love or privacy, then people who set out to become individuals, trusting in the dignity of their own soul and the creativity of their own imagination, have good reason to be afraid. They are outcasts, cut off from society and to a greater or lesser degree from their own instincts. As they work in the silence of their cocoon, they often think they are crazy.  They also think they would be crazier if they gave up their faith in their own journey. Like the chrysalis pinned to the kitchen curtain, Blake's proverb is pinned to their study wall: "If a fool would persist in his folly, he would become wise."

Courage to stand alone, to wear the "white plume" of freedom, has been the mark of the hero in any society. Standing alone today demands even more courage and strength than it did in former cultures. From infancy, children have been programmed to perform. Rather than living from their own needs and feelings, they learn to assess situations in order to please others. Without an inner core of certainty grounded in their own musculature, they lack the inner resources to stand alone. Pummelled by mass media and peer group pressures, their identity may be utterly absorbed by collective stereotypes. In the absence of adequate rites of passage, ad[1]men become the high priests of an initiation into the addictions of consumerism. Everywhere the ceremony of innocence is exploited.

Without recognized rites, members of a society are not sure who they are within the structure. Children who have fumbled their way through puberty find themselves in adolescence raging for independence, at the same time furious when asked to take responsibility. Boys who have never been separated from their mothers and are fearful of their fathers cannot make the step into adult manhood. Girls who have lived in the service of their driving masculine energies are not going to forsake their P.P.F.F. (Prestige, Power, Fame and Fortune) for a sense of harmony with the cosmos. Even the rites of marriage are confusing. Unwed couples who have lived together for years may eventually believe that "marriage isn't going to make any difference," and then be genuinely confused when sexual difficulties do develop after the vows are spoken. Arriving at middle age is agony for those who cannot accept the mature beauty of autumn. They see their wrinkles hardening into lines, and new liver spots appearing every day, without the compensating mellowing in their soul. Without the rites of the elders, they cannot look forward to holding a position of honor in their society, nor in most cases will they treasure their own wisdom. For some, even the dignity of death dare not be contemplated.

The undercurrent of despair in our society is epitomized in a German word that first appeared in English in 1963, and is now incorporated into the Oxford English Dictionary (Supplement, 1985). It is torschlusspanik, (pronounced tor¬shluss-panic), defined as "panic at the thought that a door between oneself and life's opportunities has shut." Words enter a language when they are needed, and torschlusspanik has arrived. The doors that were once opened through initiation rites are still crucial thresholds in the human psyche, and when those doors do not open, or when they are not recognized for what they are, life shrinks into a series of rejections fraught with torschlusspanik: the graduation formal to which the girl was not invited; the marriage that did not take place; the baby that was never born; the job that never materialized. Looking back, we recognize that it was often not our choice that determined which door opened and which door shut. We were chosen for this, rejected for that.

Torschlusspanik is now a part of our culture because there are so few rites to which individuals will submit in order to transcend their own selfish drives. Without the broader perspective, they see no meaning in the rejection. The door thuds, leaving them bitter or resigned. If, instead, they could temper themselves to a point of total concentration, a bursting point where they could either pass over or fall back as in a rite of passage, then they could test who they are. Their passion would be spent in an all­out positive effort, instead of deteriorating into disillusionment and despair. The terror behind that word torschlusspanik is what drives many people into analysis—the last door has shut, the last rejection has taken place. No door will ever open again. Nothing means anything.

Another reason for fearing the chrysalis lies in our cultural loss of containers. Our society's emphasis on linear growth and achievement alienates us from the cyclic pattern of death and rebirth, so that when we experience ourselves dying, or dream that we are, we fear annihilation. Primitive societies are close enough to the natural cycles of their lives to provide the containers through which the members of the tribe can experience death and rebirth as they pass through the difficult transitions. To quote from the classic Rites of Passage by Arnold van Gannep:

In such societies every change in a person's life involves actions and reactions between sacred and profane—actions and reactions to be regulated and guarded so that society as a whole will suffer no discomfort or injury. Transitions from group to group and from one social situation to the next are looked on as implicit in the very fact of existence, so that a man's life comes to be made up of a succession of stages with similar ends and beginnings: birth, social puberty, marriage, fatherhood, advancement to a higher class, occupational specialization, and death. For every one of these events there are ceremonies whose essential purpose is to enable the individual to pass from one defined position to another which is equally well defined.... In this respect man's life resembles nature, from which neither the individual nor the society stands independent.

Through their initiation, for example, boys are recognized as responsible adult men. They are cut off from their mothers, trained as warriors, instructed in the culture of their tribe.

For girls, the meaning of puberty rites is somewhat different. Here I quote from Bruce Lincoln's Emerging from the Chrysalis:

Rather than changing women's status, initiation changes their fundamental being, addressing ontological concerns rather than hierarchical ones.

A woman does not become more powerful or authoritative, but more creative, more alive, more ontologically real. ... The pattern of female initiation is thus one of growth or magnification, an expansion of powers, capabilities, experiences. This magnification is accomplished by gradually endowing the initiand with symbolic items that make of her woman, and beyond this a cosmic being. These items can be concrete, such as clothing or jewelry, or they can be nonmaterial in nature, such as songs chanted for the woman-to be, myths repeated in her presence, scars or paintings placed upon her body.

The scarification is meant to provide an experience of intense pain and an enduring record of that pain. The person is rendered unique. Through this magnification, the woman "steps into the cosmic arena: she is given the water of life, with which she nourishes the cosmic tree."

Such primitive rituals did not change the way people lived. They gave meaning to life. By means of ritual, relationship to the unchanging, archetypal aspects of existence was affirmed and renewed. What would otherwise have been boring drudgery or torschlusspanik was invested with a meaning that transcended animal survival.  Through ritual, human activity was connected to the divine.

In more sophisticated societies, the church and the theater became ritual containers. Within the safety and the confines of the Mass, for instance, the individual could surrender to God and experience dismemberment and death, descent into Hell and resurrection of the spirit on the third day. One could experience the magnification of one's own spirit by experiencing oneself as sacrificer and sacrificed. Like the primitive, the participant left the ritual with enhanced meaning, with a profound sense of belonging to a cosmos and to a community that respected that cosmos.

The theater also provided a ritual container, a public chrysalis. The plays dealt with archetypal realities. On the stage, men and women saw their own psychological depths enacted and were thus encouraged to reflect on their own human situation.

We have lost our containers; chaos threatens. Without rituals to make a firm demarcation between the profane and the sacred, between what is us and what is not us, we tend to identify with archetypal patterns of being—hero, Father, Mother, etc. We forget that we are individual human beings; we allow ourselves to be inflated by the power of the unconscious and usurp it for our own. And we do this not knowing what we do and that we do it. Liberated from the "superstitious" belief in gods and demons, we claim for ourselves the power once attributed to them. We do not realize we have usurped or stolen it. How then do we explain our anxiety and dissatisfaction? Power makes us fearful; lack of it makes us anxious. Few are satisfied with what they have. Despite our so­called liberation from gods and demons, few can live without them. Their absence makes nothing better. It may even make everything worse.

If, for example, a child has acted as buffer between his parents, he may fear his home will disintegrate if he ceases to act as intermediary. Without realizing it, he has assumed the power of the savior in his small world. When as an adult his boundaries are widened, he will tend to take on that archetypal role wherever he goes. He will also suffer guilt when he fails. He may even suffer guilt for being unable to make it snow when his family has planned a skiing weekend. Such hubris is seen as ludicrous once it is brought to consciousness, but, without consciousness, depression and despair fester inside. "I should have been able to do something. I failed," Instead of leaving other people's destiny to them and accepting his own, he attempts to take responsibility for Fate and feels inadequate when the door thuds. The resulting guilt can quickly switch to rage, rage that resonates back to the powerless childhood. "What do you expect of me? I can't do it. Get off my back. Carry your own load. LEAVE ME ALONE."

Many people, for example, think life is a meaningless merry-go-round if they are not being transported by love like Prince Charles and Lady Diana, or living for a  cause like Mother Theresa, or dying for a dream like Martin Luther King. They measure their standard of behavior by comparison with figures who carry immense archetypal projections—Marilyn Monroe, John F. Kennedy, Michael Jackson. A mask ceases to be a mask. Instead, with the help of dyes and surgery, the mask becomes the face. Cosmetics are identity or character or Fate. By identifying with an archetype instead of remaining detached from it, they turn life into theater and themselves into actors on a stage, thus falling prey to demonic as well as angelic inflation. Without the container, they confuse the sacred and profane worlds.

We are the descendants of Freud and Jung, and while poets and madmen had free access to their unconscious before those two giants, the world of the archetype is now an open market for the general populace without any ritual containment. If we are blindly living out an archetype, we are not containing our own life. We are possessed, and possession acts as a magnet on unconscious people in our environment. Everyday life becomes a dangerous world where illusion and reality can be fatally confused.

A life that is being truly lived is constantly burning away the veils of illusion, gradually revealing the essence of the individual. Psychoanalysis can speed up that process.  Sometimes people experience themselves as caterpillars crawling along. Externally, everything seems fine. Some deep intuitive voice, however, may be whispering, "It's not worth it. There's nobody here. I need a cocoon. I need to go back and find myself." Now, they may not quite realize that when caterpillars go into cocoons,  they do not emerge as high-class caterpillars, and they may not be prepared for the agony of the transformation that goes on inside the chrysalis. Nor are they quite prepared for the winged beauty that slowly and painfully emerges, that lives by a very different set of laws than a caterpillar. Even more confounding is the fact that friends and relations who may be quite happy caterpillars have no patience with a silent, hard-edged chrysalis that is all turned in on itself—"selfish, lazy, self indulgent." And they have even less patience with a confused butterfly who hasn't adjusted to the laws of aerodynamics.

Still, it is amazing how often other caterpillars, inspired by butterflies, sacrifice their landlubber condition, make their own chrysalis and find their own wings. Jung writes that coming to consciousness is "the sacrifice of the merely natural man, of the unconscious, ingenuous being whose tragic career began with the eating of the apple in Paradise.

The chrysalis is essential if we are to find ourselves. Yet very little in our extroverted society supports introverted withdrawal. We are supposed to be doers, taking care of others, supporting good causes, unselfish, energetic, doing our social duty. If we choose to simply be, our loved ones may automatically assume we are doing nothing, and at first we may feel that way ourselves. We begin to look at our primeval muck as it surfaces in dreams. All hell starts to break loose inside, and we wonder what's the point of dredging up all this stuff. We argue with ourselves: "I should be out there doing something useful. But the truth is I can't do anything useful if there's no I to do it. I can't love anyone else, if there's no I to do the loving. If I don't know myself, I cannot love myself, and if I do not love myself, my love of others is probably my projected need of their acceptance. I am putting  on a performance in order to be loved. I fear rejection. If nobody loves me, I won't exist. But who are they loving? Who am I?"

That is what going into the chrysalis is all about—undergoing a metamorphosis in order one day to be able to stand up and say I am. The gnawing hunger, the incessant yearning at the core of many lives, began at birth, or perhaps even in utero. In order to survive in a demanding environment where one or both parents projected their unlived dreams (or nightmares) onto their children, the infants gave up trying to live their own lives. As little human beings with needs and feelings of their own, they were rejected. Their mystery was never considered, and so they grew up automatically thinking in terms of other people's response. In other words, they developed a charming persona, a mask they created with infinite care—a mask that, as adults, may be at once their greatest blessing and greatest curse. Outwardly they may be brilliantly successful, but inwardly empty. They cannot understand why their intimate relationships repeatedly end in disaster, a pattern they recognize but can do nothing to stop. They dream they are actors, the spotlight is on them, but they cannot remember what play they are in, let alone what their lines are. If their ego is barely formed, they may not even appear in their own dreams, or may recognize themselves as objects or little animals.

It is important to point out, however, that we all need several personas, that is, the right mask for the right occasion. Jung was once lecturing on the topic when a student accused him of being hypocritical if he used a persona. Jung said that he had just had a fight with his wife, and he was still angry, but that anger had nothing to do with the students, nor with their reason for getting themselves to the Institute that morning. It was neither fair to himself nor to them to show that anger there. However, he said, he intended to finish the fight when he went home. The point is that we must be conscious enough to know when we are using a persona and for what reason. Otherwise we easily identify with a particular persona, which obliges us to repress our genuine feelings and prevents us from acting on them at the right time and place. The persona is necessary because people at different levels of consciousness respond to a situation with very different antennae. Naively or deliberately, making oneself vulnerable to psychic wounding without good reason is foolish. To be wary of casting pearls before swine is not conceit but plain common sense.

As the transformation process goes on, pregnancies and new­born babies frequently appear in dreams. When the conscious ego is able to release repressed psychic energy, or reconnects with unconscious body energy, or makes a decision on its own behalf, that new energy is symbolized as new life. When the psyche is preparing to move onto a new level of awareness, or one's conscious attitude has made a new connection with the unconscious, then dreams may appear where the dream ego, the shadow or the anima is pregnant. Nine months later, so long as the process has not been aborted, there are often dreams of crossing borders, passing over into a new country, moving through subterranean tunnels or actually giving birth (see below, page 158). If the ego maintains the connection, the new­born child is nurtured with soul food. If the ego falters and fails to act on the new energy, the baby may appear mutilated, starving or dead. Or it may simply disappear.

I have found that individuals tend to repeat the pattern of their own actual birth every time life requires them to move onto a new level of awareness. As they entered the world, so they continue to re­enter at each new spiral of growth. If, for example, their birth was straightforward, they tend to handle passovers with courage and natural trust. If their birth was difficult, they become extremely fearful, manifest symptoms of suffocating, become claustrophobic (psychically and physically). If they were premature, they tend to be always a little ahead of themselves. If they were held back, the rebirth process may be very slow. If they were breech­birth, they tend to go through life "ass­backwards." If they were born by Caesarian section, they may avoid confrontations. If their mother was heavily drugged, they may come up to the point of passover with lots of energy, then suddenly, for no apparent reason, stop, or move into a regression, and wait for someone else to do something. Often this is the point where addictions reappear—binging, starving, drinking, sleeping, overworking—anything to avoid facing the reality of moving out into a challenging world.

Many delightful babies appear in dreams, and just as many little tyrants who need firm and loving discipline. One child, however, is noticeably different from the others. This is the abandoned one, who may appear in bullrushes, in straw in a barn, in a tree, almost always in some forgotten or out-of-the-way place. This child will be radiant with light, robust, intelligent, sensitive. Often it is able to talk minutes after it is born. It has Presence. It is the Divine Child, bringing with it the "hard and bitter  agony" of the new dispensation—the agony of Eliot's Magi. With its birth, the old gods have to go.

Since the natural gradient of the psyche is toward wholeness, the Self will attempt to push the neglected part forward for recognition. It contains energy of the highest value, the gold in the dung. In the Bible it is the stone that was rejected that becomes the cornerstone. It manifests either in a sudden or subtle change in personality, or, conversely, in a fanaticism which the existing ego adopts in order to try to keep the new and threatening energy out. If the ego fails to go through the psychic birth canal, neurotic symptoms manifest physically and psychically. The suffering may be intense, but it is based on worshipping false gods. It is not the genuine suffering that accompanies efforts to incorporate the new life. The neurotic is always one phase behind where his reality is. When he should be outgrowing childish behavior, he hangs onto it.  When he should be moving into maturity, he hangs onto youthful folly. Never congruent with himself or others, he is never where he seems to be. What he cannot do is live in the now.

Many people are being dragged toward wholeness in their daily lives, but because they do not understand initiation rites, they cannot make sense of what is happening to them. They put on a happy face all day, and return to their apartment and cry all night. Perhaps their beloved has gone off with someone else; perhaps their business has failed; perhaps they have lost interest in their work; perhaps they are coping with a fatal illness; perhaps a loved one has died. Perhaps, and this is worst of all, everything has begun to go wrong for no apparent reason. If they have no concept of rites of passage, they experience themselves as victims, powerless to resist an overwhelming Fate. Their meaningless suffering drives them to escape through food, alcohol, drugs, sex. Or they take up arms against the gods and cry out, "Why me?"

They are being presented with the possibility of rebirth into a different life. Through failures, symptoms, inferiority feelings and overwhelming problems, they are being prodded to renounce life attachments that have become redundant. The possibility of rebirth constellates with the breakdown of what has gone before. That is why Jung emphasized the positive purpose of neurosis. But because they do not understand, people cling to the familiar, refuse to make the necessary sacrifices, resist their own growth. Unable to give up their habitual lives, they are unable to receive new life.

Unless cultural rituals support the leap from one level of consciousness to another, there are no containing walls within which the process can happen. Without an understanding of myth or religion, without an understanding of the relationship between destruction and creation, death and rebirth, the individual suffers the mysteries of life as meaningless mayhem—alone. To ease the meaningless suffering, addictions may develop that are an attempt to repress the confusing demands of the growth process which cultural structures no longer clarify or contain.

The burning question when one enters analysis is "Who am I?" The immediate problem, however, as soon as powerful emotions begin to surface, is often a psyche/soma split. While women tend to talk about their bodies more than men, both sexes in our culture are grievously unrelated to their own body experience.  Women say, "I don't like this body"; men say, "It hurts." Their use of the third-person neuter pronoun in referring to their body makes quite clear their sense of alienation. They may talk about "my heart,'' "my kidneys," "my feet," but their body as a whole is depersonalized. Repeatedly they say, "I don't feel anything below the neck. I experience feelings in my head, but nothing in my heart." Their lack of emotional response to a powerful dream image reflects the split. And yet, when they engage in active imagination with that dream image located in their body, their muscles release undulations of repressed grief. The body has become the whipping post. If the person is anxious, the body is starved, gorged, drugged, intoxicated, forced to vomit, driven into exhaustion or driven to frenzied reaction against self-destruction. When this magnificent animal attempts to send up warning signals, it is silenced with pills.

Many people can listen to their cat more intelligently than they can listen to their own despised body. Because they attend to their pet in a cherishing way, it returns their love. Their body, however, may have to let out an earth-shattering scream in order to be heard at all. Before symptoms manifest, quieter screams appear in dreams: a forsaken baby elephant, a starving kitten, a dog with a leg ripped out. Almost always the wounded animal is either gently or fiercely attempting to attract the attention of the dreamer, who may or may not respond. In fairytales it is the friendly animal who often carries the hero or heroine to the goal because the animal is the instinct that knows how to obey the Goddess when reason fails.

It is possible that the scream that comes from the forsaken body, the scream that manifests in a symptom, is the cry of the soul that can find no other way to be heard. If we have lived behind a mask all our lives, sooner or later—if we are lucky—that mask will be smashed. Then we will have to look in our own mirror at our own reality. Perhaps we will be appalled. Perhaps we will look into the terrified eyes of our own tiny child, that child who has never known love and who now beseeches us to respond. This child is alone, forsaken before we left the womb, or at birth, or when we began to please our parents and learned to put on our best performance in order to be accepted. As life progresses, we may continue to abandon our child by pleasing others—teachers, professors, bosses, friends and partners, even analysts. That child who is our very soul cries out from underneath the rubble of our lives, often from the core of our worst complex, begging us to say, "You are not alone. I love you."

We dare not drop the tensions. In order to widen consciousness, we have to hold both arms on the cross. If we reject one part of ourselves, we give up our past; if we reject the other part, we give up our future. We must hold onto our roots and build from there. Those roots often appear as a psychic home sometimes a summer cottage that the dreamer loves, or the country of his origin, or his ancestors' origin. The longing to go Home must certainly be looked at symbolically, for it is often more than a regressive longing for the security of the womb. It can be the one solid root that goes right through one's life, becoming the point of genuine nurturance for spiritual growth.

Whether we like it or not, one of our tasks on this earth is to work with the opposites through different levels of consciousness until body, soul and spirit resonate together. Initiation rites, experienced at the appropriate times in our lives, burn off what is no longer relevant, opening our eyes to new possibilities of our own uniqueness. They tear off the protective veils of illusion until at last we are strong enough to stand in our own naked truth.

The process is mirrored in dreams, often in images of cooking, cars, cupboards and clothes. The Cinderella work is accomplished in the kitchen. Having brought the wild things of nature in, taken off their feathers, cleaned out their entrails, cooked them and made them accessible to consciousness, the ego stands firm. Mother and Father no longer drive the car. The incessant sorting through actual cupboards and drawers has ceased, and the sorting in dreams has reached a finely differentiated level of detail. What clothes to wear is no longer a constant frustration, and the incongruous shoe combinations have at last settled into pairs that are the same color with the same size heel. Or maybe no shoes at all—just good solid feet on good solid ground. Usually the Self allows the ego time to enjoy this period of experiencing its new strength—perhaps months, perhaps years. Each process in unique, moving at its own appointed pace.

The existence and continuity of the ego is essential to our lives. It is necessary that we experience the person who wakes up in the morning as the same person who fell asleep last night, despite the fact that what took place during the hours of sleep may appear so unrelated to the waking state that it never enters consciousness. One way in which the ego maintains its integrity is to remove from itself everything that does not directly offer it support. It simply excludes or suppresses everything which does not coincide with its conscious understanding of itself.

The danger in such a limited view is that the ego may harden and dry up, just as the earth will harden and dry up if it is not continually replenished with water. The ego needs the nourishment of underground springs. It requires the compensatory life of dreams if its continuity is to move beyond mere survival and perpetuation. In addition to these, it requires direction and purpose. As soon as it gives itself up to a higher goal, however, it is threatened, not only by the fear that it may not be able to achieve it, but by a dawning sense that that higher goal, because of the demands it makes, is the enemy of the ego. In some sense, the ego feels that it may be working against itself. Ultimately, of course, it is, but for a better good.

The goal of human striving in the individuation process is the recognition of the Self, the regulating center of the psyche. That recognition relativizes the ego's position in the psychic structure, and initiates a dialogue between conscious and unconscious. "The only way the Self can manifest is through conflict," writes Marie­Louise von Franz. "To meet one's insoluble and eternal conflict is to meet God, which would be the end of the ego with all its blather."

If the ego rejects that conflict, then the goal is contaminated by the ego's desire for more and more power, or wealth, or happiness. The result is ego inflation.  According to Jung:

An inflated consciousness is always egocentric and conscious of nothing but its own existence. It is incapable of learning from the past, incapable of understanding contemporary events, and incapable of drawing right conclusions about the future. It is hypnotized by itself and therefore cannot be argued with. It inevitably dooms itself to calamities that must strike it dead.

Paradoxically enough, inflation is a regression of consciousness into unconsciousness. This always happens when consciousness takes too many unconscious contents upon itself and loses the faculty of discrimination, the sine qua non of all consciousness.

The inflated ego tends to idolatry. It focuses on a single image, fashions it and worships it. Determined to create that image, it is trapped in profane ritual.

Religiously speaking, all such profane rituals are contained in the worship of the Golden Calf. A fat woman's body image, for example, may be her Golden Calf. No matter how much she thinks she hates it, her rituals are taking place around it. It is this thralldom before her own body image that she may be called upon to sacrifice. The profane worship must be sacrificed to make way for the sacred. The withdrawal from the one operates simultaneously with the entrance into the other. We withdraw as we enter. Withdrawing is entering. Whether we stress the withdrawing or the entering, we are stressing the same thing.

When this process begins, it may be reflected in the dreams by a bell tolling, an alarm sounding or lightning striking. It can also be heralded by physical symptoms. It can be brought on by loss of faith, loss of relationship or the imminence of death. Something almost imperceptible begins to happen. For people watching their dreams, the bell usually tolls some weeks before the actual events occur. In real life we seem to be carrying on as usual, but a very clear inner voice may begin to comment,  hinting that things are not as they seem to be. We may find ourselves singing songs that put a very ironic twist on our conscious actions. Our inner clown may be singing, "Put your sweet lips a little closer," to the tune of "Please release me and let me go." If the ego has not sufficient strength and flexibility, it will panic and either regress to its former terrors of annihilation, or regress to its former rigid framework—in either case, refusing to go through the birth canal.

The ego now has to be strong enough to remain concentrated in stillness, so that it can mediate what is happening both positively and negatively. It must hold a detached position, relying now on its differentiated femininity in order to submit, now on its discriminating masculinity in order to question and cut away. Something immense begins to happen in the very foundation of the personality, while consciousness experiences the conflict as crucifixion. Ego desires are no longer relevant. The old questions no longer have any meaning, and there are no answers. There may be a few stricken "why's," but they belong to the order of logic and discipline, and what is taking place is irrational, beyond ego control. The ego on some level knows. It knows that what is happening has to happen. It knows that its personal desires have to be sacrificed to the transpersonal. It knows it is confronting death.

It is a period of throbbing pain. It is King Lear howling on the heath, brought to submission and reunited with the daughter whose truth was her dowry. At last, he says,

Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,

The Gods themselves throw incense.

It is Job covered with boils, moving from "Do not condemn me; shew me wherefore thou contendest with me" to "I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee."

It is Jesus in Gethsemane, sweating blood, moving from "Let this cup pass from me" to "Thy will be done."

A woman during such a period of withdrawal and entry had the following vision:

I was walking by the St. Lawrence one sunny, summer day. I thought I was going Home. Instantly the sky darkened; the earth grew cold. I could not see with my eyes, nor hear with my ears. I was seeing inside, hearing inside. Then I realized I was on ice, floating, suddenly not floating, but being thrust by the power of the current. The ice began to crack. I leaped from one floe to another, the ice cracking in front, behind, beside. I thought I might die in the ice-cold water, or be ground by the grating blocks. And all the time I knew I was being propelled toward the ocean. I just kept jumping and screaming, "Please, God, don't kill me. Not yet. Not this time."

At times like this, Rilke's words can be very reassuring:

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and... try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.

These situations, whether in analysis or in life, or both, can raise profound religious questions. Is this God confronting me? Was I on the wrong track? Am I being forcibly turned around? Is there some almighty plan that is different from mine? Am I being forced to submit? Should I accept Fate? Do I, in fact, have any free will? Is this God burning away the veils of illusion, or am I facing the devil? Is he making one last stand to cheat me out of my own life?

Psychologically, the questions are equally blistering. Is this the Self demanding a sacrifice? Or is this the real face of the complex that has crippled me all my life? Just when I thought I could be free, there it is to destroy me. Everything I have fought so hard to bring to consciousness is now in question. Why do I suddenly wake up every night at the same time? Why do I feel this searing pain? Why are my hands so weak? Am I really alone? I'm worse off now than I ever was. I'm back in the old pattern. I'm back in the matrix—back in the Garden recognizing the place for the first time. Is this who I really am? Is this who I have been running away from all my life?

Psychologically, the ego, like Lear, Job and Jesus, is penetrating and being penetrated by the archetypal Ground of Being in an effort to bring to consciousness whatever it can of that vast unknown. It experiences another law operating from within, a dawning realization that it has a destiny of its own which must be obeyed. It knows that something new is being born; it has to breathe into the pain and let it be.

Many people in our culture are attempting to suffer these transformations alone, without any ritual container and without any group to support the influx of transcendent power. Like Eliot's Magi, they experience the birth as "hard and bitter agony . . . like Death, our death." They are "no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,/With  an alien people clutching their gods."

Without the container and without the group, the aloneness is almost intolerable. The individual ego has to be strong enough to build its own chrysalis in order to create a loving communication with its own inner symbols. Their numinosity brings the confidence and integrity, humor and illumination without which the ego could not survive, let alone expand. A childish ego, primitive and unconscious, cannot maintain a living chrysalis; it wants to project everything, and, tuned to a natural order, it explains what happens by magic. The chrysalis becomes too precious in itself, shellacked with sentimentality. A childlike ego can hold the tension, pull in the projections and ponder the inner mystery. At the transpersonal level, the symbols are simultaneously individual and universal. At that level, none of us is alone. New relationships, bypassing the world of transitory disguise, begin at that depth, and from there relate back to the world in a totally new way.

Hours before he died, Thomas Merton, author of The Seven Storey Mountain, gave a lecture which concluded with a plea for openness to the "painfulness of inner change":

What is essential... is not embedded in buildings, is not embedded in clothing, is not necessarily embedded even in a rule. It is somewhere along the line of something deeper than a rule. It is concerned with this business of total inner transformation.

According to his own account, Merton completed his inner transformation on his Asian journey standing barefoot in the presence of the giant Buddhas of Polonnaruwa in Ceylon. "I know and have seen what I was obscurely looking for," he wrote. "I don't know what else remains but I have now seen and have pierced through the surface and have got beyond the shadow and the disguise."

When Merton asked a Buddhist abbot, "What is the 'knowledge of freedom'?" the abbot replied, "One must ascend all the steps, but then when there are no more steps one must make the leap. Knowledge of freedom is the knowledge, the experience, of this leap."

Voices from the Chrysalis

It's hard for me to trust life. I like to take hold of it, grab it by the neck and put my teeth into it, just to be sure it doesn't get away on me.

I try to see how far I've come, rather than how far I have to go.

Now that I'm contacting my own inner clock, I am so slow. My life is on top of me. The collision of values overwhelms me. Am I wasting my time? I don't know.... I don't know.... this terrible aloneness.

I've always identified with what I'm not. But who am I? My guilt and shame and fear are making me human.

I was always waiting until all the responsibilities were completed, then there would be time for me. How? I never thought about that. I've been so busy doing, I've missed something very important to me. I don't think I was ever a child. I have no recollection at all of being a very young child with any sense of being ME.

I wonder if it takes a holocaust, outer or inner, to help us to realize what is really essential in life.

I lived a smile­and­grin, smile­and­grin existence. I was dying.

I rage for life. I want so much to be free.

I'm trying to have faith—faith that I will be born.

I'm so off balance. I pray for daily guidance to avoid tripping over things. I can go to sleep when I orient myself  to the stars.

The spirit is in the volcano inside. My relationships aren't very good right now, so I go back to work. I'm safe there. But even that isn't perfect.

I'll explode if I have to react to one more thing. I'm pulling back. I'm overwhelmed by the pressures of the outside world and the mounting pressures of the interior world are making me feel actually sick.

Used to feel capable, used to speak and write well. Now I never feel secure because I can't find words.

Am I fighting my destiny or does my destiny require I take a stand?

When I touch into that essence and recognize myself as what I've been running away from, I am humbled.

I'm Miss Compassion, Miss Humanity. I'm a missing piece. I'm also a child of God.

To get rid of one's past one has to forgive—confront and forgive—and move into the present. Forgive oneself too, and God.

I hated my father. I imitated hated myself.

--Marion Woodman en "The pregnant virgin"

#emily dickinson #william blake #carl jung #freud #psychology #archetype #the pregnant virgin #marion woodman #Marie-Louise von Franz #rainer maria rilke #lear #Job #jesus christ #T.S. Eliot #journey of the magi #thomas merton #the seven storey mountain

[prince-honeypaw]

Hi honey! I saw your little yagi hc and I couldn't stop thinking about them, can you do more please? Once again, any age you see fit!

♡ Of course! Been a long while since I got to do any little Toshinori HCs so I hope you enjoy! And I might even continue this one in the future! ♡ Big warning: There is mentions of child abuse in the beginning of this post, so be wary!

♡ When Toshinori was fifteen years old he was given the incredible power to uphold a dream that would change the structure of hero society forever. He wanted to become a pillar of hope that people could rely on no matter what, which is a huge dream on its own, but he pursued it regardless. He took on challenge after challenge thrown at him throughout his time at UA and occasionally took comfort in this soft, safe mindscape that started to develop in his third year of school.

♡ It was an indulgence that he allowed himself, from buying nostalgic little toys that he could play off as trinkets to some less easily explained items that he simply tucked away in a shoebox under his bed, it was just a gentle haven between the difficult day to day training. He allowed himself to have this!

♡ Until he lost his mentor, Nana Shimura. When she fell, he dropped into that mindset hard for all but a few moments before Sorahiko Torino, Gran Torino, had beaten the mourning out of him. If he wanted to become this symbol he dreamed of being, he would have to make sacrifices. He took this to heart and faced the torturous training his secondary mentor inflicted upon him head-on. There was no time for him to be crying when Nana sacrificed her life for him to keep going.

♡ And keep going he did. Toshinori became more than a pillar of hope, he became a legend- The Symbol of Peace. Innocents were safe under his reign, fear was struck into the hearts of villains at the whisper of his name, and heroes strived to be half of what he could be. All it cost was everything.

♡ He sacrificed everything. Even with his sidekicks, from David Shield to Nighteye, he still gave up everything. His time, his energy, his health, his entire life, all of it in the name of his dream. So, when it finally came to an end and he lost the remaining embers of his quirk?

♡ Toshinori became lost. He no longer had to give up everything to uphold his dream because that chapter was over... He was done. And that was more frightening than any villain he had ever had to face. Old feelings started to spark up like new wounds, things long buried clawed their way back to the surface, and he still forced them down.

♡ Until he simply couldn't anymore. After dedicating himself to being Izuku's teacher, he struck up a gentle friendship with the boy's mother... She could tell he was a lonely person and with her, Toshinori felt safe and welcomed. Inko was tender, kind, and stood her ground where she needed to- All traits he valued in his late teacher. They bonded over the struggles that came with raising the next generation and feeling like there was nothing left for one to do when those kids moved on... And he just shattered.

♡ Soft, broken sobs like those of a lost child rattled his fragile chest until he was coughing up blood against his sweater sleeve, tears spilling in long rivulets. Inko moved over to him on instinct, frantically shooshing and soothing in the way only a mother could, pulling him into her chest- And getting the wind knocked out of her when he practically dove into the gentle affection. He might be thin as a rail, but Toshinori is still a big boy!

♡ Thankfully, Miss Midoriya is very accustomed to emotional kids and takes him up into her lap and tucks his head into the crook of her neck, humming a gentle tune. It settles him down enough to staunch the coughing, though he smears his face clumsily against her shoulder.

♡ Inko looks Toshinori over- Really taking in just how small he actually is. Not just in size, but in personality. He's always so timid and kind with her, but undeniably lost without his All Might persona there to pick up all the pieces. This was what being a pillar of society did to him and she can't help the pity that wells in her chest when she watched him tentatively nurse on his fingers, looking up with wide, innocent blue eyes.

♡ She can't leave him like this. After all he had done to take care of Japan and all he was doing to take care of her own son while he chased his dreams? It was high time that someone took care of him for once.

#tw: child abuse #tw: blood #sfw agere #bnha agere #Agere Yagi #Agere Inko #Honey HCs

[thewertsearch]

Yeah, I think what each individual Aspect ‘means’ is being left intentionally vague. Hell, the closest thing we ever got to a Title explanation came from Jaspers, which says it all, really.  

Let’s take a quick look at the kids’ four Aspects, through the lens of the Players who embody them.

Breath is not a traditional element. Wind is, but Hussie chose Breath, which feels very deliberate.

I think this is evidence that we’re supposed to be looking at Aspects symbolically, because Breath is highly unlikely to be literal. I really don’t think John has powers that relate directly to people’s lungs - although that would be pretty funny, so I kind of want to be proven wrong. 

Anyway, John has (maybe) done one thing with his Aspect - he (possibly) created a gust of wind. Not much to work with, but that, plus the name of his Land, does imply that this is indeed the Wind-substitute element. There’s definitely more going on with Breath, though - because, again, it could have just been called Wind. 

Rose ‘likes’ LOLAR, but she’s generally more into shadows. Why did the game assign her the Aspect that seems like her natural opposite?

Jaspers, uh, tries to explain, but it’s all sort of mixed up. 

JASPERSPRITE: [...] you are what some people around here call the Seer of Light. JASPERSPRITE: And you dont know what that means but you will see its all tied together! JASPERSPRITE: All the life in the ocean and all the shiny rain and the songs in your head and the letters they make. JASPERSPRITE: A beam of light i think is like a drop of rain or a long piece of yarn that dances around when you play with it and make it look enticing! JASPERSPRITE: And the way that it shakes is the same as what makes notes in a song! JASPERSPRITE: And a song i think can be written down as letters. JASPERSPRITE: So if you play the right song and it makes all the right letters then those letters could be all the letters that make life possible.

So Light is... music? It’s vibration? Thought? String? Language? DNA? 

There’s a throughline here of information, but that’s clearly riffing on Rose’s role as a Seer, a role which revolves around information. None of this really explains Light - if anything, it sounds like Jaspers is struggling to relate Rose’s Quest to her Aspect, and I’m no clearer on what it really means. 

It might not mean anything, or - and this is a possibility I’ve been considering for a while - it might mean whatever its Player thinks it means. Players shape the Medium through their prototypings, so maybe they shape their own elemental system the same way, and Jaspers is deliberately being vague so that Rose can make her own judgement about what Light ‘is’. 

Anyway, this one is weird, because I think Jaspers is talking about Rose’s Class as well as her Aspect, and I can’t untangle the two yet. I think I’ll table the Rose Light Analysis until we get another Light Player, and we can compare and contrast.

Time seems pretty cut-and-dry - it symbolizes time. Dave’s a Time Player, so he’s the time traveler of the group, he’s the one messing with timelines, and he’s the one who’s going to have the most time duplicates floating around. If Time is more than that, we haven’t seen it. 

Dave's settled into his Aspect better than anyone - although it is notable that he doesn’t seem to have any time powers, as such - he’s just using an item.

If Time is straightforward, then Space should be too, right? But Jade’s Aspect seems like the complete opposite of what her deal is, even more so than Rose. Jade was literally the team seer for a thousand pages - she was all about Time, and hasn’t really done anything that relates to space. 

Rose is the one with an observatory, and John is the one with a telescope. Maybe Jade will get a teleportation item during her alchemy binge, and we’ll see the Witch of Space start to put her Aspect to use. 

#asks #full liveblog #act 5 #classpect #homestuck liveblog #theories

[sodapops0lstice]

Still have splatstuck on the brain so I'm gonna give you what weapons I think everyone has anyone who isn't listed is too old to play or will be in a potential part 2

June - Kensa Mini Splatling

I know in my heart she's an Inkopolis Square girl so she's getting a Splatoon 2 weapon. We already know she has an affinity for slow hard-hitting weapons which is just the splatling to a T. Plus the special is the Ultra Stamp which I mean, c'mon obvious and obvious. AND it's sub is toxic mist, mist is basically a type of wind, well it's the airiest of all the subs and that's good enough for me.

Rose - Octobrush

We're going with the Splatoon 1 setup for the Octobrush this time. I think brushes are the closest to her needles in the sense they're actual hobby tool turned weapon. The Squid Beakon as a sub alludes to her light aspect (lighting the optimal way for her teammates) and Kraken as a special is obvious, large and strong squids are her thing. I also like to think she uses an Octobrush specifically cause she's still caught up in the rush of when Octolings on the surface were counter culture and "scary".

Dave - Splatana Wiper Deco

I don't think I need to explain why he would have a splatana. But Deco specifically because it's the less known one and Dave is a massive hipster so obviously he'd choose the one people use less.

Jade - Grizzco Charger

In Splatstuck, Jade is raised by Salmonids so I don't think she has a regulated weapon, instead finding a Grizzco Charger left by Grizzco employees, she (and Jake) help out Salmonids fighting off the employees, they're family after all.

Jane - Tri-Slosher Nouveau

This is mainly cause of the Taticooler to be honest. I assume Jane plays support in Turf War and the Taticooler is the BEST for support. The Slosher is also a hard hitting weapon that takes a lot of niche skill which is also a household commodity, like her weapon in Homestuck. (Maybe she spoons the ink out with a Crocker Corp spoon!)

Roxy - S-Blast '91

The MOST Roxy weapon ever. Blasters are an in-between fistkind and riflekind which is her strife specibis. The S-Blasts are based off the Super Scope for the SNES which is a retro system and we all know Roxy loves her retro video games. The special is the Booyah Bomb which gets stronger with team rallying which Roxy as the appointed "friend leader" does herself. And to be honest, burst bombs just FIT her, no explanation it's vibes only.

Dirk - Order Splatana

How'd he get that?

Jake - Grizzco Dualies

Same story as Jade, just instead Dualies since he has an affection for dual pistols in Homestuck. (The Grizzco employees don't think it's fair, how come all they get is some shitty slopsuit while the Salmonids have TWO Inklings that both have OP weapons that have 0 cooldown)

Karkat - 🚫

In Splatstuck, Karkat used to be a VERY red Inkling before undergoing to partial grayscaling, he still retains his freewill but his ink colour never recovered, staying permanently grey. Because of this, he isn't able to play nor work at Grizzco (Grizzco has anti-Salmonid specific ink), so instead he just hangs out with his friends and plays a bit of Tableturf instead. Strangely though, he always finds himself wandering back to the Deca Tower...

Aradia - Tri-Stringer

I believe Aradia used to be in the Octarian Army that was then Sanatized but made a good enough recovery to participate in battle. I think the Tri-Stringer is the most "adventurey" of the weapons and Aradia l0ves adventure 0u0. Toxic Mist could also be interpreted as a Mist of The Supernatural/Death which is common symbolism, which is also her deal. Killer Wail 5.1 is less Aradia-y but I like to imagine after who knows how long of being a silent unfeeling soldier then a husk from sanitization how GOOD it would feel to just scream into the Killer Wail.

Tavros - Carbon Roller

As an Inkling who's legs didn't quite grow right due to him and Vriska playing Turf War together when they were far too young, he had to get inventive when he actually came of age to play Turf War. He got Equius to strap a roller to his wheelchair, choosing the Carbon Roller because it's the fastest and the very helpful Autobomb. The Ink Storm is just a reference to his aspect. He still prefers Tableturf though, he's Karkat's rival.

Sollux - Dualie Squelchers

He sticks to a theme, of course he's gonna have the twosies weapon. Squelchers specifically because I imagine he's intense about Anarchy/Ranked and is into competitive. So obviously he's gonna for the meta option.

Nepeta - Aerospray MG

She's just here to have fun, Fizzy Bombs are fun and so are Reefsliders. Surprisingly, incredibly talented with it, way more wins than you'd ever expect.

Kanaya - Splatana Stamper Nouveau

Do you want me to lie to you and tell you she would use something else? It's literally a chainsaw. Nouveau specifically because I think she likes the Crab Tank, it's her compromise for Karkat after he couldn't play anymore. She intentionally roughs it up to annoy him.

Terezi - Cherry H-3 Nozzlenose

Intentionally chose a Nozzlenose cause she knows no-one likes them. I assume she finds the Bubble Blower fun to use aswell but she absolutely chose this one because 1TS TH3 T4ST13ST >:]

Vriska - Octo Shot

Back when Octolings were still ascending to the surface, Vriska was by far the youngest. While most were in there teens or atleast fully formed, Vriska was only 8 years old and still in that peculiar half squid half kid stage of development. Because of this, her memories of Underground are tinted rose, wishing to go back and become a soldier (much to Aradia's displeasure who stayed underground and had experienced that reality). Because of this, she's chosen the Octo Shot and cannot be talked out of it.

Equius - Sloshing Machine

A STRONG weapon for a STRONG guy. I like to imagine he made his own Sloshing Machine, Autobomb and Stingray so well that Turf War regulators don't even notice it's not Sheldon-made. It's a point of pride for him.

Gamzee - Inkbrush

I think he likes to not think and just run around and paint with his Inkbrush, it's hairs are probably all clumpy and frayed. Terezi definitely bats him when he's using his Baller special.

Eridan - Tempered Dynamo Roller

I think Eridan doesn't even play Turf War, I think he finds it uncouth (pretendin to be real soldiers from the great turf wwar is ridiculous and a slap in the face to the actual important people) , but he knows Feferi likes it so he just SAYS he plays the Tempered Dynamo Roller, just because it's the most expensive Roller. Everyone's waiting for him to realise they've been discontinued and they know he's a big liar.

Feferi - Heavy Splatling Deco

I think she got this from Meenah after she got too old to play Turf War because Feferi begged for it. She switched out the special and sub to Point Sensor and Kraken Royale. She's incredibly skilled at it and is basically always playing with Sollux.

#solar systems #homestuck #splatoon #splatstuck

[vodid]

(Same anon that asked the jewelry asks)

How do you come up with the jewelry for your Obsidian King AU characters? Do you just think of them or look up inspirations on the internet?

How do you come up with the flags of the kingdoms, like Praxus?

What does Prowls castle look like? Is it very very big, and what colour?

I am so sorry for all the questions- it’s also 2:59 and I’m tired and I got a burst of inspiration of questions lol hope that’s okay!

LOL no no you're all good! i'm winding down from finishing up a piece and haven't gotten back to comms so you caught me at a good time

it's hard to explain how exactly i came up with some of the jewelry (i assume you also mean their gold/etc accents) but generally i thought of what would look best with their given designs/stories and went from there. as far as i can remember, it all came from my big ol brain with the help of some friends

there IS usually at least one element that has a deeper meaning for the character, such as barricade with his face of pyrite/"gold", symbolizing his betrayal to both his mate and his noble family; bluestreak with eyelids of gold, accentuating his sharpshooting skills; and smokescreen with his chevron of gold. this one is a little more obscure, but chevrons as we know are a very integral part of praxian culture and are typically used for affection (forehead taps!) so having a chevron of gold could be akin to symbolizing the genuineness and caring nature of a person <3 smokescreen also has snake bite piercings, which play into his gambling side! (cause yknow. snake eyes.)

optimus has a design matrix centric as prime, along with elita for being queen of iacon (home of the matrix bearer), and she just so happens to be his wife! bonus points for matrix centric design!

for prowl specifically, i chose accents that would bring out the sharpness of his overall design and character. y'know, his wings, his weapon, his chest colors, his chevron, his mind and wit — they're all sharp! his chevron loop piercings were purely for looking pretty, his shoulder loops complimenting them, but the chains that hang from his left side go deeper into his grief over smokescreen, having been confined to his berth for an extended period of time.

jazz's praxine appearance had an element completely unintentional on my part that i hadn't realized until someone in my server pointed it out, but you know how prowl has gold chevrons on his servos and, after they bond, jazz has matching ones on his shoulders? this could symbolize jazz's role as praxine to help prowl shoulder some of the weight of being a ruler, taking it from prowl's hands when he needs. romance! meaningful!

the flags... oh man. okay let me include a pic of all of them so far:

we'll go in order. vos is... well, we all know trines and how they're big for seekers. because of this, vos does not have one sovereign, instead having an elite trine to split the duties, hence one fire trail for three jets in the banner. this one i'm not the most satisfied with as it feels really. obvious. compared to the others but it's cute and practical!

old praxus however is a very different story. there are a LOT of elements in this that come together and it actually took me a very long time to figure out. here is an excerpt from the au's info doc on this one: "Based on the gold and chevron of their first sovereign, King Onyx, and the kingdom's love for crystals. Three crystals + prong-like shapes point up in homage to their Vosian roots." (praxians are direct descendants of vosians in this au) so not only does the triple prong allude to trines, but it also alludes to vos' throne room, which has three tall thrones all pointing in (think of g1 starscream's coronation platform) these prongs point up at the gold badge, symbolizing the sovereign of praxus and their status as royalty. heavy vosian roots, as you can see

this symbol ended up absolutely tarnished by the ruby kings and the war with vos. so tarnished in fact that smokescreen had to change it when he became king. the new praxian banner is pretty straightforward. he removed all vosian elements as they are an independent kingdom (and vos hates them anyway) and based it entirely off his only heir as a symbol of a brighter and hopeful future :>

iacon is just the matrix. that's it. LOL

polyhex is really interesting to me and i love explaining this one! obviously we have a sheet music esque design, with an odd clef/bridge of instrument thing at the end, but the symbol there is called a fermata! in music terms, this is to indicate a note held for as long as the conductor says. it's typically the dramatic end to a song! i promise there's a connection and it has to do with the phrase "long live the king!" because,, get it,,, fermatas are notes held longer than normal. hehe. i will say, while i always wanted to incorporate a fermata, polyhex absolutely fought me on this design so i'm not entirely satisfied with it either but it works!

the praxian palace is indeed crystal!! it's very big and changes colors! it's a soft blue at night and a pink during the day. i don't have a detailed or final version of the palace, but here's a draft i made!

it has spires but don't be fooled, they're not functional. the palace itself is only a few levels and generally follows medieval architecture inside, the crystal having been built into with metal

PHEW is that all in this ask? it's been so long since i've infodumped that much about my au :'D if you want more, you KNOW i am more than happy to answer!

#obsidian king au

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 3: Friends and Enemies

Welcome back to the reread, folks who don't want spoilers will be escorted out like this dude was in a picture that really depicts something from last book, but he's in this one, but it's all without context if you haven't read them. Also, read everything in the series, I will spoil all of it.

This chapter starts us out with a new icon: the ruby dagger. It typically symbolizes bullshit related to it, Shadar Logoth, or Padan Fain. In this case, it's mostly about Fain, but the dagger shows up too and gets infodumped for those of us who for some reason picked up book two without touching book one.

“Peace favor you, Rand al’Thor.” Ragan almost shouted to be heard over the bells. “Do you intend to go hit rabbits over the head, or do you still insist that club is a bow?”

Please someone draw Rand braining rabbits with his bow. Come on. You know you want to.

Rand recognized him, now, with his deep-set, almost-black eyes that never seemed to blink. They peered from his helmet like twin caves inside another cave. He supposed there could be worse luck for him than Masema guarding the gate, but he was not sure how, short of a Red Aes Sedai.

Oh dear. Masema is an interesting guy in that he continually threatens to be plot relevant and yet never quite hops that threshold because even at his most terrifying he is way behind the level curve. I'm really not sure what to make of him, though I'll give it a try as I reread this time around. For right now, it's worth noting that he starts somewhat unpleasant.

Ragan was an easygoing man, his manner belying his grim scar, and he seemed to like Rand. But Masema was already shaking his head. Ragan sighed. “It cannot be, Rand al’Thor.” He gave a tiny nod toward Masema as if to explain. If it were up to him alone. . . .

It's a real shame that the Wheel never got a Shaidar Haran / Nakomi avatar who could just laugh at how much it got to consistently punk Rand with the tiniest little details.

Perhaps he could find a length of rope. . . . He climbed one of the stairs to the top of the outer wall, to the wide parapet with its crenellated walls. ... He looked up at the nearest guardtower; one of the soldiers raised a gauntleted hand to him. With a bitter laugh, he waved back. Not a foot of the wall but was under the eyes of guards.

Rand: I'm sure that fortresses are built so that it's easy to rappel your way out of them! No one will even notice!

It sure is a shame he didn't have a mentor to teach him about warfare and defense, since both of these subjects will be very important to him going forward.

Gentled. Would it be so bad, to have it all over? Really over? He closed his eyes, but he could still see himself, huddling like a rabbit with nowhere left to run, and Aes Sedai closing round him like ravens. They almost always die soon after, men who’ve been gentled. They stop wanting to live. He remembered Thom Merrilin’s words too well to face that. With a brisk shake, he hurried on down the hall. No need to stay in one place until he was found. How long till they find you anyway? You’re like a sheep in a pen. How long? He touched the sword hilt at his side. No, not a sheep. Not for Aes Sedai or anybody else.

Rand's almost pathological strength of will is a great characteristic. He's completely out of any tenable options and he still refuses to play Moiraine's very fucked up game.

The armorer’s forge, with all the fires banked, the anvils silent. Silent. Cold. Lifeless. Yet somehow not empty. His skin prickled, and he spun on his heel. No one there... Angrily he stared around the big room. There’s nobody there. It’s just my imagination. That wind, and the Amyrlin; that’s enough to make me imagine things.

Is it this? Is Rand picking up on Fain's staring at him from his prison? Is he getting some paranoia from channeling the taint? All of the above?

Loial was watching them dice, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with a finger thicker than a big man’s thumb, his head almost reaching the rafters nearly two spans up. None of the dicers gave him a glance. Ogier were not exactly common in the Borderlands, or anywhere else, but they were known and accepted here, and Loial had been in Fal Dara long enough to excite little comment.

Loial! Mat's teaching him how to be a thriftless layabout! I'm so proud of them. Loial deserved more opportunities to be chilling while people did absolutely banal crap that he could still find fascinating.

That was something I had not seen before. Two things. The Shienaran Welcome, and the Amyrlin Seat. She looks tired, don’t you think?

Wow, Loial way to play into sexist narratives. You don't say this about Agelmar and that bro has had a lot more on his plate the past couple months and he's like a million times older.

Rand opened his eyes to see his friends straightening up out of the knot of dicers. Mat Cauthon, long-limbed as a stork, wearing a half smile as if he saw something funny that no one else saw. Shaggy-haired Perrin Aybara, with heavy shoulders and thick arms from his work as a blacksmith’s apprentice. They both still wore their Two Rivers garb, plain and sturdy, but travel-worn.

It's so rare having all three of these boys in the same room that I'm just happy it's happening at all.

“You’re as white as your shirt. Hey! Where did you get those clothes? You turning Shienaran? Maybe I’ll buy myself a coat like that, and a fine shirt.” He shook his coat pocket, producing a clink of coins. “I seem to have luck with the dice. I can hardly touch them without winning.”

Again, if Moiraine had wanted to fuck with people's clothing, Mat would have been all for it once she got him into a shop. And also note that despite a lot of misconceptions about this, Mat's been unusually lucky his whole life. It's just something about him that isn't even related to his being ta'veren. He only gets inexplicably lucky in book 3 though.

Perrin’s eyes lifted. Yellow eyes, gleaming in the dim light like burnished gold. Moiraine hasn’t hurt us? Rand thought. Perrin’s eyes had been as deep a brown as Mat’s when they left the Two Rivers. Rand had no idea how the change had come about—Perrin did not want to talk about it, or about very much of anything since it happened—but it had come at the same time as the slump in his shoulders, and a distance in his manner as if he felt alone even with friends around him. Perrin’s eyes and Mat’s dagger. Neither would have happened if they had not left Emond’s Field, and it was Moiraine who had taken them away.

That's some bullshit, Rand. Perrin almost certainly would have ended up a werewolf no matter what happened because the wolves were coming down from the mountains and while you can't know that, you can very much know that Mat disobeyed Moiraine. If he hadn't had sticky fingers and wanderlust, he never would have been cursed. You have so much bullshit to blame Moiraine for legitimately that this is just silly.

He knew that was not fair.

How dare you undercut my chewing you out in the very next sentence?

“Walls don’t stop a Fade,” Mat muttered. “Not when it wants to come in. I don’t know as laws and lamps will do any better.” He did not sound like someone who had half thought Fades were only gleemen’s tales less than half a year before. He had seen too much, too.

Mat's... sadly correct. There's no plausible way to stop a Fade from showing up in your house if it wants to be there unless you have the ability to light up every single surface and get rid of every shadow. The only reason that the Shadow hasn't just outright slaughtered humanity is that it's not actually in their interest to do so. And really, for all the shit people give pre-book 3 Mat, he's been a completely good friend and voice of reason in this seen.

“Easy, Rand,” Perrin said softly. “There is no need to be so rough.”

And meanwhile, Perrin isn't saying much, but he's playing peacemaker. It fits where Jordan seemed to be going with him.

“Isn’t there? Maybe I don’t want you two going with me, always hanging around, falling into trouble and expecting me to pull you out. You ever think of that? Burn me, did it ever occur to you I might be tired of always having you there whenever I turn around? Always there, and I’m tired of it.” The hurt on Perrin’s face cut him like a knife, but he pushed on relentlessly. “There are some here think I’m a lord. A lord. Maybe I like that. But look at you, dicing with stablehands. When I go, I go by myself. You two can go to Tar Valon or go hang yourselves, but I leave here alone.” Mat’s face had gone stiff, and he clutched the dagger through his coat till his knuckles were white. “If that is how you want it,” he said coldly. “I thought we were. . . . However you want it, al’Thor. But if I decide to leave at the same time you do, I’ll go, and you can stand clear of me.” “Nobody is going anywhere,” Perrin said, “if the gates are barred.” He was staring at the floor again.

And now Rand's being a dick. Mat and Perrin were nothing but supportive and concerned and he pushes them away because he has to be alone. I am begging writers to stop using this trope, it's annoying and forced drama and Mat and Perrin deserved better.

“I am not staying here,” Mat told the rafters, “with a bigmouthed Ogier and a fool whose head is too big for a hat. You coming, Perrin?” Perrin sighed, and glanced at Rand, then nodded.

And now Rand's shittiness is infectious and making Mat be rude to Loial, but it only gets worse with...

Rand made his voice harsh. “What are you waiting for? Go on with them! I don’t see why you’re still here. You are no use to me if you don’t know a way out. Go on! Go find your trees, and your precious groves, if they haven’t all been cut down, and good riddance to them if they have.” Loial’s eyes, as big as cups, looked surprised and hurt, at first, but slowly they tightened into what almost might be anger.

Loial is not your emotional dumping ground, boys. Y'all are only picking on him because he's soft and kind and you don't wanna fuck with a target that can fuck you up in kind.

Well, a voice in his head taunted, you did it, didn’t you. I had to, he told it. I will be dangerous just to be around. Blood and ashes, I’m going to go mad, and. . . . No! No, I won’t! I will not use the Power, and then I won’t go mad, and. . . . But I can’t risk it. I can’t, don’t you see? But the voice only laughed at him.

And we can see Rand's maladaptive coping mechanisms, with the very first hint of his shoving the parts of himself he's not comfortable with (in this case, the love he feels for his friends and his ability to channel at all) outside of his "self" and creating an emotionally unstable alter ego that he tries (and fails) to wrangle validation out of.

She jumped when he popped out right in front of her, and her breath caught loudly, but what she said was, “So there you are. Mat and Perrin told me what you did. And Loial. I know what you’re trying to do, Rand, and it is plain foolish.”

Egwene is 110% done with Rand's shit. Lan's idea that he could somehow wrangle her into abandoning Tar Valon is some hilarious projection.

Her hair suddenly made him angry. He had never seen a grown woman with her hair unbraided until he left the Two Rivers. There, every girl waited eagerly for the Women’s Circle of her village to say she was old enough to braid her hair. Egwene certainly had. And here she was with her hair loose except for a ribbon. I want to go home and can’t, and she can’t wait to forget Emond’s Field.

Rand, who wants "to go home and can't": Never makes any effort to establish communications with his father figure until it comes time to try and murder him.

Egwene, who "can't wait to forget Emond's Field": Regularly sends letters home throughout the series because that's where her family lives.

He turned to walk away, and with a cry she threw herself at him, flung her arms around his legs. They both tumbled to the stone floor, his saddlebags and bundles flying. He grunted when he hit, sword hilt digging into his side, and again when she scrabbled up and plopped herself down on his back as if he were a chair.

Foreshadowing for Merrilor, Rand's wounds, and her future occupation, all in half a paragraph.

“Men! When you cannot win an argument, you either run away or resort to force.” “Hold on there! Who tripped who? Who sat on who? And you threatened—tried!—to—”

Nynaeve ain't the only lady in these books who is hilariously hypocritical in her sexism.

Finally he told her what Lan had said. “What else could he mean?” Her hand froze on her arm, and she frowned with concentration. “Moiraine knows about you, and she hasn’t done anything, so why should she now? But if Lan. . . .” Still frowning, she met his eyes.

Heck, this is basically bookends with Merrilor: Rand and Egwene are having a stupid fight about bullshit where they're both right, and one half of the Moiraine/Lan duo ends up being how they come to hold common ground. And shit like this is why communication has to be so rare in this series, as soon as Rand tries it he starts getting results instead of ten thousand headaches and knife wounds.

“Rand, he has brought his wagon into the Two Rivers every spring since before I was born. He knows all the people I know, all the places. It’s strange, but the longer he has been locked up, the easier in himself he has become. It’s almost as if he is breaking free of the Dark One. He laughs again, and tells funny stories, about Emond’s Field folk, and sometimes about places I never heard of before. Sometimes he is almost like his old self. I just like to talk to somebody about home.”

If Fain hadn't sidestepped his fate, would Egwene's kindness here have gotten him back onto the path of the Light? But also... well, see below.

“Moiraine has said it’s safe? Egwene?” “Moiraine Sedai has never told me I could not visit Master Fain,” she said carefully.

Not even a Novice yet and already all over them three oaths. Also I love every aspect of their fight in this page and would quote it all if I had anything intelligent to say on the subject.

The man studied Rand, his upper lip quivering back to bare teeth. Rand did not think it was supposed to be a smile. “Well,” Changu said finally. “Well. Tall, aren’t you? Tall. And fancy dressed for your kind. Somebody catch you young in the Eastern Marches and tame you?”

Let's all relish the fact that this racist Darkfriend is going to be skinned alive in seven chapters, shall we?

“He’s waiting for you.” He thrust the lamp at Egwene, and undid the inner door almost eagerly. “Waiting for you. In there, in the dark.”

If this were in a horror movie, the line would be too corny.

“They know me better than that,” she said, but she sounded troubled, and she added, “They seem worse every time I come. All the guards do. Meaner, and more sullen. Changu told jokes the first time I came, and Nidao never even speaks anymore. But I suppose working in a place like this can’t give a man a light heart. Maybe it is just me. This place does not do my heart any good, either.”

Remember when I said "see below"? People, especially Egwene haters, talk about how since Fain corrupted the guards, Masema, Elaida, Niall, and Riatin, he should have corrupted her too. And yet Egwene doesn't seem to be anywhere near as fucked up as all of those people ended up being - she's stubborn, but in a Two Rivers sense, and arrogant, but not to the point of it being a fatal flaw. Rand doesn't talk about her eyes being messed up like he did with Masema. I think she managed to sidestep the effects precisely because she kept Fain out of Gollum mode and made him behave like a normal human.

Looking straight at Rand, hidden in the blackness behind the light, he pointed a long finger at him. “I feel you there, hiding, Rand al’Thor,” he said, almost crooning. “You can’t hide, not from me, and not from them. You thought it was over, did you not? But the battle’s never done, al’Thor. They are coming for me, and they’re coming for you, and the war goes on. Whether you live or die, it’s never over for you. Never.”

Is Fain channeling Ish's usual nihilistic shtick because his current metaphysical status is equally depressing, or did it just end up being shoved into him when Ish made him the Hound?

“Soon comes the day all shall be free. Even you, and even me. Soon comes the day all shall die. Surely you, but never I.”

Sometimes it feels like every villain in this series is convinced that they're some kind of metaphysical constant. Fain buddy, you're literally going to become more and more irrelevant to the point that your death is an afterthought in someone else's plot line. You won't even leave behind some kind of evil legacy through which it could be said you're surviving. You represent nothing because two separate authors couldn't figure out what to do with you.

“This was not a good idea, Rand.”

Haters take note of the fact that when Egwene fucks up she can just admit it and move onto plan B. Not her fault that Fain is super extra crazy today.

In the darkness, Fain laughed. “It’s never over, al’Thor. Never.”

Also, I just want to note: While obviously time being cyclical means that sure, nothing's ever really over, you might as well argue that it never really starts either. The Last Battle is coming and when it's done, it's done. Rand spends two years in shittiness and decades if not centuries doing whatever the fuck he pleases, and it's very unlikely that his next incarnation will be dealing with anything so extremely miserable - nor is it likely he'll have to recall all of his past lives like Rand did, so he won't even be aware of it all. The villains who insist at looking at the apparent big picture only make themselves crazy because they never get to see the whole of it.

Anyway though, that's it for this chapter. Next time, more Great Hunting!

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #rand al'thor #ragan #masema dagar #loial #mat cauthon #perrin aybara #egwene al'vere #changu #nidao #padan fain

[abyssalremia]

Gifts of Gratitude

“This really isn’t necessary.”

The hrothgar knelt before her paid her words no mind as he continued to carefully fit the eyepatch to her tiny features. “But it is,” came his murmured reply. “You not only rescued me, but protected all of my comrades until reinforcements were able to make it to our camp. If it wasn’t for you, none of my unit would have made it back alive. We owe you far more than a simple piece of clothing.” He sighed. “Alas, you refuse our gifts of gratitude so at the very least, allow me to give you this, Lady Remia.”

While he continued to adjust the tightness of her new eyepatch, Remia’s uncovered eye flicked off to the side, taking in the altered perspective. With her so-called "good eye" now covered, the world had lost much of its color only to be replaced by a subtle shifting of faded hues. As though she were seeing through the rainbow light reflected in fractured glass. Translucent veils of aether flowed all around like wisps on the wind. She could follow them with ease now that her sight wasn’t clouded by her normal eye that lacked Gremory’s magick touch. Everything was so clear and blinding to the point she was half tempted to ask Yaromir to switch the eyepatch to her right eye. But, in the long run she knows being able to see the world through Gremory’s magick will inevitably give her an edge in battle. It’s best to learn to use it now so when Hien next calls upon her to fight, she’ll be ready to catch everyone off-guard with her new tricks.

Yaromir pulled back slowly after double checking the tie under her hair wouldn’t come loose. “Is that alright?” He asked, his deep voice nearly a purr rumbling from within his chest.

Remia reached up to feel the heated leather now covering her normal eye. Her nail tapped the golden metal design inlaid in its center, tracing its outline. “What is this symbol?”

“It’s for protection previously used by shamans long before the Fourth Umbral Calamity.” Yaromir explained. “I know when you and your sister are done here, you will return to Doma and I doubt you’ll visit. So, I pray for your safety in the years to come. Know that you will always have allies in Bozja should you have need of us.”

Her hand fell away from the eyepatch as he stood. Remia could do little more than slowly nod, perplexed by such a sincere, heartfelt gift. The first she had ever received from someone. This display of unwarranted kindness rendered her speechless. Entirely at a loss on how to respond…

Knowing this was as far as their interaction would go, Yaromir politely excused himself to return to his work. Remia waited until he was out of sight before once again reaching to lightly brush her fingers over her eyepatch. And if someone were to look at her in that quiet moment, they’d find the smallest of smiles ghosting across her feline features.

is yaromir going to end up being another future fully fleshed-out oc because i'm a sucker for hrothgars? yes, yes he is. do i regret this? only a smidge but i'm committing to him :3 i just, yeah, hrothgars. need i say more? Thank you for reading ya cuties and I hope you have a lovely day/night!

#remia #ffxiv oc #post stormblood #yaromir #ffxiv #ffxiv writing #idle musings